Somewhere Very Near
by Ju-dou
Summary: In 1939, Richard is gone, and in 1915, Mary's life with him is just beginning. Life means all that it ever meant.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: So, this has been kind of a fun enterprise for a while now, but thanks to my wonderful beta mrstater, I've finally plucked up the courage to just post it, because, why not? I have a thing for parallel timelines, so the odd chapters are WWII and the even chapters are 1915 onwards. The title comes from 'Death is nothing at all' Henry Scott Hollan. I own only the original characters, the others are gratefully borrowed._**  
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**1.**

**The Storm Gathered**

September, 1939

With several impatient flicks Beatrice cast the ash into the marble ashtray and returned the cigarette to her lips. "Mama is going to be frightfully peeved you know, Alex." Her red lips curled into a smile and she arched her eyebrows in an uncanny impression of their mother. "Oh, Alexander, for goodness sake!" she intoned with a theatrical sigh.

"I knew I could rely on you not to wail and bemoan my potential death under enemy fire," her brother replied with a grin.

"I don't go in for wailing. Neither does Mama having said that, she will be cold – dismissive - and then angry," Beatrice said, a shadow flickering across her face. "She will probably cry."

Alexander shifted, resting the ankle of one long leg on the knee of the other.

"Our revels now have ended," he said.

Beatrice rolled her eyes, stubbing out the cigarette and leaning forward in the chair, her chin on her hand.

"Well if anyone has enjoyed some revelry it has been you," she smirked.

"That's rich coming from you, dear sister!" he laughed with a lightness that didn't penetrate his blue eyes.

"My life is one long party," Beatrice replied, but her smile had tightened, pulling at the fine curves of her high cheekbones. "You can always count on me to lighten the mood, that's why you told me first, no?"

"Told you what?" a voice came from the doorway and they turned to face it's owner, a golden headed boy who eyed them uncertainly from beneath a fringe that he brushed away from his eyes self consciously under their gaze.

"Nothing to trouble you, darling," Beatrice said, extending her hand so her younger brother took it uncertainly, her polished fingernails pressing into his palm.

The boy's eyes narrowed. "You are such a bad liar, Bea."

She released his hand with a pretend huff of annoyance, and winked at him. "You're wrong there, I'm a tremendously good liar."

"What's going on?" he pressed, standing awkwardly, looking between his older siblings.

"You might as well know," Alexander said, avoiding his brother's gaze for a moment to examine his fingernails. "But I don't want you to get upset Christopher, I'll have enough blubbing when I tell Caroline. I'm joining up, before I'm made to."

"You can't!" Christopher's eyes widened, and Alexander met them with some discomfort.

"I can. I must."

"Well, that isn't true," Beatrice said, a shaft of sunlight highlighting the side of her face for a moment as she turned into it, looking away from him. "You _want _to."

"I won't be forced. I will go because I choose to, or not at all," he replied, his tone turned heavy and stubborn as his brow creased.

"Of course, nobody forces Alexander Carlisle to do anything," Beatrice said.

"Quite so," he tilted his chin. "Oh come, Christopher, don't cry."

"I'm not crying!" he shot back, blinking away the tears that were threatening to fall. "You can't just leave us!"

"You can be the man of the house," Alexander responded off handedly, looking to Beatrice who kept her face turned away towards the window.

"I don't want to be! I'm thirteen!" Christopher's hands clenched into fists by his sides. "You are so selfish!"

His brother looked at him, his eyes at once sharp and piercing, as he pinned the child to the spot, his jaw clenching.

"Don't you say that to me," he said, his lips almost a sneer. "Don't you dare! Where would we all be if it weren't for me? We all have to grow up quicker than we would like."

"Mama won't let you!" Christopher spluttered, his lip trembling.

Alexander shook his head. "Mama has no choice, and neither do you."

"You promised Papa!"

"Stop it," Beatrice snapped. "It is done."

Christopher's lips pursed and a spot of colour flushed his cheeks, before he turned on his heel and left the room.

"He can be such a baby," Alexander said after a pause, his fingers moving to touch the crystal prisms that hung from the lampshade on the table beside him.

Beatrice watched as a rainbow flashed momentarily between his fingertips. "He_ is_ a baby."

"Perhaps it's time he grew up. He can't be protected forever."

"Don't be too hard on him, Alex."

"That will depend on whether he now goes straight to Mama." He raised an eyebrow, and caught her eye.

"You know he will, he's an insufferable tell tale. But he's just a child, and for whatever reason he rather looks up to you," she said, her eyes glimmering once more, the shadow passing from her face. "Is this news going to spoil our weekend in the country? Is Caroline coming?"

"She's meant to be. I thought I'd tell her when we're there if I can, when she can't run off." He moistened his lips. "Plus there will be plenty of distractions, enough reasons to prevent a scene, and I always so enjoy the way you tease Stephen. It's such an amusing side line to every family get together."

"You are awful," Beatrice said, her lips pressed together. "Don't rely on me to detract attention from your bombshell."

"I'm awful? You're terribly cruel to that poor defenceless boy, he's like a puppet on a string."

Beatrice shrugged, letting a breath escape her lips in a dull hiss. "One must have some sort of past time. The country bores me to tears and he is sweet."

"Far too sweet for you," Alexander said with a throaty chuckle that reminded Beatrice powerfully of their father. "Do you remember that party of Brideton's?"

She flinched. "Yes. Cousin Matthew blamed you for that."

"I didn't pour the whiskey down Stephen's throat!" he replied, rubbing his chin with one hand and laughing.

"You are a bad influence."

"Our sweet cousin needed to see a bit of life and who better to show him life than us?"

"This insubstantial pageant faded," Beatrice quoted. "There will be no more parties."

"There's nothing to stop you carrying on, darling," Alexander replied. "It'll just be the girls soon enough but that could be fun."

"What about Stephen?" she said suddenly. "Will he have to sign up?"

"Probably, before long," her brother shrugged. "He should have already registered for training." Alexander unfolded his tall frame from the armchair and stood up, stretching his arms. "We should make this weekend one to remember, once the olds have gone to bed, of course."

"The corrupting influence of the wayward cousins," she said.

"Indeed." Alexander grinned. "I do so love living up to my own hype."

* * *

Mary removed the gold lame gown from the wardrobe and handed it to her waiting maid. She let her fingers pass over the sequins briefly, as the dress changed hands. It was backless, immeasurably elegant, bathing her like a second skin and she dazzled in it, emitting a light all of her own. Richard had liked it, admired the little it left to the imagination, the nearness of her bare flesh to his fingers. _Can I borrow it? _Beatrice asked but she had had to refuse. She felt Richard close when she wore it, his hands spanning her waist, his cheek against hers as he leaned in to whisper in her ear. _You are blinding. _Mary let her eyes close for a moment and she could almost smell his aftershave.

There was a cursory knock at the door before it was flung open and she turned to see her youngest child, his fingers and thumbs pressed together at his sides, the corners of his mouth turned down.

"Whatever is the matter?" she asked. "I'll finish packing, thank you, Havers." She dismissed the maid, and frowned at Christopher.

He chewed his bottom lip, an internal battle evident on his face. "It's Alex!" he blurted, snapping his lips shut again immediately.

Mary raised an eyebrow. "He's at the office isn't he?"

"No, he's downstairs with Bea."

"I see," she said, laying the dress between sheets of tissue paper in the trunk. "Are you packed?"

"Mama, he's volunteering! He's volunteering to go to war!"

Mary froze over the case and her fingers closed around the tissue, crushing it like the petals of a brittle flower. She shut her eyes and saw Richard, Alexander cradled along the length of his forearm, the perfect little head contained in his hand. _Our darling boy. _Her forehead prickled and nausea swayed from the pit of her stomach, so that she covered her mouth with her hand.

"You must stop him!" Christopher's voice throbbed against her temple, and she found she couldn't turn to look at him.

"I can't stop him," she said, taking a steadying breath, leaving the tissue crumpled on top of the case. "He's twenty three years old, far beyond my reach."

"But Mama!"

Mary straightened and turned to face him. "Christopher. I want you to go and make sure you have everything packed to take to Haxby."

He opened his mouth to speak, but was silenced by his mother's expression, the drawing down of blinds. As her son left the room Mary heard the sound of the front door opening downstairs and what sounded like a pile of trunks hitting the marble surface of the entrance hall. She had years of practice, years of schooling her features into cool composure, lifting up her eyes to Richard's and smiling when she would rather have cried. She must not cry and she knew if she stayed alone in this room any longer she would. Mary closed the trunk, the dress and the crumpled tissue disappearing from sight under the heavy leather lid. When she opened the bedroom door a high peal of laughter curled up from the staircase and she leaned over the banister to see her youngest daughter pulling Christopher into a bear hug, before nearly tripping backwards over a discarded suitcase.

"Flossie! You've only been gone two weeks!" Christopher panted breathlessly, extricating himself from his sister's grasp, and grinning at her as she brushed her hair from her eyes.

"It feels like an age! I've never known a train to take so long!"

"Were you driving it?" Mary asked, appearing soundlessly at the bottom of the stairs.

"Mama!"

Mary kissed her cheek, but her hand shook as she smoothed her hair.

"Are you all right? You look a bit ill," the girl frowned.

"And you look like you've been dragged through a hedge backwards. There's soot on your face."

"Oh!" Florence laughed, rubbing a hand down her cheek. "I sat in third, there wasn't much space so I had to keep poking my head out of the window for a breath of air."

Mary's eyebrows arched but she didn't comment. "Well you had better go and freshen up, we leave in an hour."

"I am glad to be home," Florence beamed, giving her cheek another impromptu kiss. "Where are Bea and Alex?"

Christopher's nose wrinkled and he opened his mouth, but thought better of speaking when he saw the pointed expression directed at him by Mary.

"Oh, darling, look at the state of you!" Beatrice said, her heels clicking on the floor as she and Alexander emerged from the arched doorway behind the stairs.

"Do you deliberately cultivate the style of Oliver Twist?" Alexander teased before accepting her embrace, lifting her slightly from the ground.

"Is Cambridge everything you hoped for?" Beatrice asked.

"Well, in a way I think. I hadn't expected things to be quite so… _separate,_" Florence said carefully, with a quick look at her mother. "But it's better that way I suppose."

"I won't have any Cambridge cads distracting my sister," Alexander winked, giving her shoulder a squeeze.

"You're quite happy to be the cad distracting other people's sisters though?"

"Oh, Bea, you can be so hurtful," he replied with a grin. "You cut me to the quick!"

"You're there to receive a university education," Mary said, her mouth tense.

Alexander glanced at her but didn't hold her gaze, instead putting an arm around each sister. "Come tell us all about it over some tea before we make the long journey north, where talk will be of tenants, land and farming. We better hear the shocking details here."

Christopher stood stiffly, his fingers fiddling with the lining inside his pockets as his siblings laughed, heads together as they walked from the hallway.

"You come and have tea too, Mama," he said.

"No, you go. I'm fine," she replied with a smile that seemed to pinch her mouth. Mary watched her older children, the girls with an arm each around their brother's back, and thought of them sitting in a row on the cool marble at the bottom step of the staircase at Haxby, Alexander grinning between his sisters as they pressed their shoulders against his and jostled either side of him. Her heart fluttered in her chest and she felt as if she could reach out and touch them. Reach and hold them once more, as they were, dimpled cheeks and faces that turned up to hers with ready kisses. Mary almost called out. She stopped herself, their names dying on her lips.

"Mama?" Christopher lingered beside her, his hand slipping into hers, his eyes wide and anxious. She pressed her fingers to his cheek for a brief moment.

* * *

"What's wrong with Mama?" Florence asked once they were in the sitting room. She flopped into an armchair, her limbs arranged in an attitude of carefree elegance, a band of soot still smeared across her cheekbone like a kiss.

Alexander shrugged, his back turned to them as he rang for the tea. Florence's eyes narrowed and she looked to her sister who was studiously rubbing a smudge from the toe of her show. "What's going on? All of you are terribly transparent, you know. I could feel the tension as soon as Saunders opened the front door, like an Artic blast."

"I'm bored of it already," Alexander said, smoothing a hand over the side of his fair hair, and shaking his head slightly.

"What have you done?"

"What makes you think I've _done _something? I don't deliberately set out to upset our mother."

"No-one thinks you do," Florence said, a flush in her cheeks.

He gave a short humourless laugh. "That isn't quite true."

"Mama doesn't think you _want _to upset her," his younger sister replied, a spark of indignation rising in her voice.

"Not Mama, no."

"Then who?" she demanded.

Beatrice turned to her. "Why, Cousin Matthew, of course. He gave Alex quite the dressing down when we were at Grantham House."

"Did he?" Florence asked, her mouth slightly open, her eyes wide. "Why?"

"It doesn't matter why," Alexander snapped. "It was a bit bloody much." He pulled himself up as the butler entered the room. "Tea, if you wouldn't mind, Saunders. Thank you."

"Very good, milord."

"Oh, Saunders, I am sorry about the mess I made of the trunks," Florence said sheepishly as the butler's staunch features softened.

"It's quite all right, miss." He nodded, before leaving the room.

"Why do the servants seem far more forgiving of your mess than mine?" Beatrice said.

"Probably because I make less of it," Florence replied. "Anyway, Alex, I think it was rather horrid of Cousin Matthew to tell you off." Her face set indignantly. "You should tell Mama."

Alexander rolled his eyes, his hand moving to turn the signet ring on his little finger. "I'm not a child who needs to retreat behind his mother's skirts."

"Why did you argue with Matthew?" Christopher asked, slipping into the room, his face wrought with anxiety.

"For God's sake, can you stop coming in halfway through a conversation?" Alexander said. "It's really starting to get on my wick! Eaves droppers never hear good of themselves, you know."

"You weren't talking about me," Christopher replied, with a little twist of defiance to his face, as he perched on the arm of Florence's chair.

"No, and we aren't talking about anything that concerns you, and even if we were I wouldn't be inclined to include you because the first thing you would do is run to Mama."

The boy's lips pursed as he shrank slightly under his brother's glare. "You treat me like a baby."

"You act like one."

Christopher swallowed, and he shrugged off Florence's hand as it moved to rest on his arm. He stood up, squarely in front of Alexander, so that he smirked at the ridiculousness of it, this child measuring up to him.

"And you act like Papa, but you're not!"

The air stilled, and the room itself seemed to shimmer in the grey afternoon light, as its occupants froze. A nerve flickered by Alexander's eye, and his jaw clenched. Christopher's bottom lip trembled, and he glanced at his sisters.

"No, I'm not," he said, flatly. "And whatever you or Cousin Matthew may think, I am doing my best for my family," Alexander paused. "Perhaps if you were less of a sniveling brat you would realize that."

"Alex…" Florence started, reaching to take Christopher's hand where it hung limply at his side.

"And how is leaving the business best for the family?" Beatrice said. Her fingers tensed together on her crossed legs, her eyes glassy with tears.

Alexander turned to her, incredulity staining his features. "I thought you weren't going to wail," he said.

"I'm not wailing, it's a valid question," she replied, her chin tilted up to look at him as he stood in the middle of the room, surrounded.

"What do you mean, leaving?" Florence asked. "I don't understand."

"I intend to sign up for the army," he continued before she could respond, looking back to Beatrice. "You're twenty-one, it's time you managed your share. With you and Mama watching over the board - maybe even taking over editorial control - I'm sure little can go wrong in my absence." He held her gaze unflinchingly, daring her to let a tear fall. "I'm hardly irreplaceable."

Beatrice bit down hard on her lip. She closed her eyes, and as she opened them to look back at him, a single tear rolled down her pale cheek.

"Christopher is right, you are selfish."

* * *

As they waited by the front door for the luggage to be loaded into the cars, the atmosphere was limp at best. Florence repeatedly adjusted her hat, her long hair inadequately pinned by a hasty maid. Beatrice eyed her, and had the fleeting thought that she must persuade her sister to get a more fashionable haircut before she returned to Cambridge. How she had survived the piercing criticisms leveled at even the most polished debutantes, Beatrice did not know, she sometimes suspected Florence was entirely oblivious of the machinations of the wider world. She had floated through her debut, feet never entirely placed on the ground. Beatrice sighed, but what was meant to sound like impatience, became more of a quivering breath and she pressed her lips tightly closed. Nothing spelled the end of a long, eventful season like a trip to Downton, and it appeared this visit might not be enlivened by the wit and camaraderie of her siblings.

"So, who wants to come with me?" Alexander asked, a thin smile on his lips as he looked around at his silent family. "Flossie? Come on, I'll let you sing."

"I'll come with you," Mary said, meeting her son's eyes steadily. "Unless of course the invitation doesn't extend to me."

"Of course it does," he replied, with a nod to the chauffeur. "Haines, you can drive the others."

"Well, they'll make a merry twosome," Beatrice whispered to Florence, as they descended the stone steps in front of the townhouse. "I'm sure the journey will fly by."

"Mama is upset," Florence replied. "We all are. Poor darling, Alex."

"Poor Alex, my foot!" her sister hissed. "Unbeknownst to us, he's been harbouring some secret desire to be a war hero. The investors are certainly not going to like it."

Florence hid a smirk behind her glove as the door of the car was opened for them.

"What?" Beatrice snapped.

"What do you know of investors?"

"I know as much as I need to. We all have an equal stake in this, you know." She settled herself into the back seat, her hands folded in her lap, as Christopher ducked in opposite them.

"Papa did like to be fair," Florence mused.

"When it came to us, certainly," Beatrice replied, raising an eyebrow.

"Papa would not want Alex to go to war," Christopher said, chewing on his bottom lip.

"Of course he wouldn't! None of us _want _it!" Her eyes narrowed. "But Papa is not here."

"And everything is unfair," Christopher muttered, his finger tracing a raindrop down the window.

With a quick frustrated movement, Florence removed her hat and placed it on her lap, her fingers picking at a loose strand of felt. "I miss him terribly!"

Beatrice stiffened, a prickle of perspiration beginning on the back of her neck, as she watched the windows of the car begin to steam, the rain flicking against the glass like tiny stones. She thought of her father's hand underneath her chin, and his rough thumb as he smoothed away a tear from her cheek. Florence had cried the night before her ball, loudly and angrily, her hair matted and tangled across her face, her feet drumming on the floor as she leant against the dressing table in Beatrice's bedroom. Papa was not there. He was not striding across the marble hallway, he was not bent over the desk in his study with a cigar in his hand, and he wasn't kissing their mother indiscreetly in front of the guests. _There is no need to be nervous, darling. You are impossible to outshine._

"I'm dreading going to Winchester," Christopher said, his eyes on his lap.

"You've got another year," Beatrice sniffed.

"It was all I could think about on my birthday," he continued. "That next year I'll be leaving for school."

"The day war broke out and you continued to think of your birthday and the horrors of cutting mama's apron strings," Beatrice said, not entirely unkindly.

"You'll be one of the oldest in your year," Florence offered. "I think having a September birthday is an advantage academically."

"Christopher has numerous advantages, let's be honest. We all do," Beatrice said.

"And we shouldn't squander them," Florence replied, pointedly.

"I shan't squander the opportunity to have a riotous weekend in the country, that's for sure."

"It'll hardly be riotous," Christopher said, a smile dimpling his cheeks as he chuckled softly.

"And what do you know of it?" Beatrice said, a teasing sparkle reclaiming the sheen on her eyes. "I shall call for reinforcements!"

"You're going to invite your friends?" Her brother goggled, unable to conceal his glee.

"I already have, darling. They're coming up with Caroline."

"Does Mama know?" Florence frowned.

"Oh, Flossie, don't worry. She'll hardly know they're there."

"I think you should have asked, after last time."

Beatrice waved her hand. "Don't be tiresome. The end of the season is so flat; it will be a jolly boost, before…" she trailed off, her fingers waving in the air briefly and falling still.

* * *

Mary's eyes flickered as the street crawled by outside the window, the smell of exhaust seeping into the interior of the car as they came to a halt close to the vehicle in front. Alexander exhaled in irritation, his lip curling and his fingers drumming on the steering wheel. He glanced at her but her head remained turned away from him. There was much he could say, and a great deal of it turned over inside his mouth, eager to spill out and fill the stuffy atmosphere of the Rolls Royce. As a child, Alexander had chattered, often incessantly, desperate to impart every thought in his mind to those around him, to share everything. He did not like silence. The one sidedness of his own internal monologue had sometimes seemed to swell and press against the edges of his skull, prickling and tugging until he felt overwhelmed with the multitude and power of his own thoughts. Now, he wrote everything down. Not a diary, nothing so clichéd, more of list, which he destroyed after writing it, crumpled into his palm and then tossed into the hearth. If he didn't write those thoughts down, where would they go? He could not speak them. Alexander spoke in facts, in the truth; he did not deal in fears.

"Shall I open the window?"

Mary turned to him. "If you wish to get wet, then by all means, do."

Alexander slid open the window slightly to temper the steam that was beginning to build on the glass. "I shall have to let Stephen take it for a spin," he said, pressing a smudge from the walnut dashboard with his thumb.

"I'm sure he would enjoy that," Mary replied, looked down at her gloved hands in her lap. "And what of the Bugatti?"

"I said he should take it out, keep it ticking over. I hate to think of it gathering dust in the garage at Haxby. Perhaps we'll drive back in it."

"100 mph all the way from Yorkshire to London?"

"I think you have a secret desire to be driven at high speed, Mama," Alexander said, accelerating as the distance between the car in front lengthened and the traffic slid forwards.

"I do not have a desire to die in a gruesome road accident, secret or otherwise."

"I am a very careful motorist. Cautious Carlisle, that's what they call me."

Mary raised her eyebrows in amusement as she regarded her son. He looked to her and smiled, the dimples beneath his high cheekbones evident.

"Is that so?"

"How would you describe me?" Alexander asked.

_You are just like your father; so much that it stings my eyes. _"Prone to recklessness," Mary replied, tilting her chin up, and glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.

He nodded. "A fair assessment, but not wholly accurate."

"I see, so after twenty-three years I still don't have the measure of my own son."

"I'm not sure you understand what motivates me," he replied, his thumbs tapping absently on the steering wheel.

"I don't know what motivated you to get Stephen so drunk he vomited all over my grandmother's antique silk rug," Mary said.

Alexander snorted. "He is not a child, and I am not his father. My aim on that particular evening was to enjoy myself, and I did."

"And the casualties?" Mary asked.

"Stephen is no different from anyone else, we all wake after a party filled with regret…"

"And stinking of vomit?" Mary interjected.

"Not in my case. Must I always be responsible for others?"

His words were sharp and Mary flinched imperceptibly. "There are duties in life."

"Taking care of my family is not a duty." His eyes flickered to hers. "Nor is it an honour," he said with a twitch of his lips. "But it is all that matters to me, my family are all that matters to me."

"Alex…" She closed her eyes briefly, and her chest clenched.

"For some reason I love every last one of you, even Christopher at his most aggravating." He swallowed. "The war is a duty, and it may well be an honour, but I won't do it for love. I will go because I have to."

Mary wanted to take his face between her palms, and kiss the centre of his forehead as she had when he was a child. _I don't believe in doing things in the name of duty. _Mary could feel Richard's hand in hers, his thumb chafing across her fingers. _Not in the name of love then, surely? _The lines around his eyes smoothed, and she didn't know if his flash of surprise was real or in her imagination. _Not if that isn't what you want to hear, _he said. At the start Mary hadn't known what she wanted to hear from Richard, but it certainly hadn't been talk of duty and honour, so that at least was something. A promise, a declaration made by Richard came cast in stone, he did not stand to be misinterpreted and Mary had never known anyone be so direct with her – until Alexander.

"When did your life stop being about duty?" he asked.

"The day I married your father."

"You married him because you wanted to."

"Yes."


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: So this is a long chapter, apologies for that! Thank you so so much for your responses to the first part, I'm so thrilled to receive any feedback, it just makes my day :) Huge thanks to my beta, mrstater, who is the most indefatigable cheerleader! _**  
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**2.**

**Lest Old Acquaintance Be Forgot**

New Years Eve, 1914

Mary wanted nothing more than to escape, and she was beginning to think her feelings were clouding her formerly poised expression. The difficulty in maintaining a patiently entertained demeanour, for hours on end, was becoming obvious, and her attempts at returning inane conversation were increasingly strained. Just as she was contemplating slipping away to a grandiose powder room, Nancy Astor swept over to her, Cora at her side, a tremulous smile Mary recognized all to well on her lips.

"Oh, Mary, my darling." Nancy beamed widely at her. "You look divine. The boys have been quite falling over themselves, but I'm sure that was your intention." She winked.

Mary returned a tight smile. It had not been her intention. In fact it had not been her intention to attend this New Years Eve party at all, and she thought she couldn't be the only one who considered it poor taste to hold such a lavish affair mere months after the onset of war.

"Anyway, I do wish you'd come meet a friend of mine. Your mother just adores him already."

"Does she?" Mary's eyebrows arched as she looked to her mother, who seemed to be attempting to communicate something by the widening of her eyes.

"Come!" Nancy said, gleefully, linking Mary's arm in her own, the fur of her stole tickling Mary's shoulder.

Her hostess guided Mary effortlessly through the throng, the parting of feathers and white ties either side of them, as they slipped in between guests on a wave of Nancy's overwhelming presence. Mary felt like a trailing thread in her emerald green wake. When they stopped beside one of the high windows at the side of the ballroom, Mary's view was momentarily obscured by Nancy's coiffed golden hair, rolled and pinned into a series of twists more elaborate than the pattern of filigree on the heavy curtain to the side of the window.

"Lady Mary Crawley, Sir Richard Carlisle," Nancy said, stepping back as if unveiling a portrait, to reveal the man standing before her.

"Lady Mary," he said, taking her hand briefly in his and nodding, in what Mary considered a rather curt manner.

Nancy was looking inordinately pleased with herself, and Mary gave her a concessionary smile, as if this was the first time someone had pushed her in the direction of a handsome eligible man. He _was_ rather handsome, she decided briefly, having given him a cursory assessment. Not that it mattered, and she was already running through the preconceived conversational routes to take, checking off appropriate responses to whatever it was he planned to say. She knew _what _he was, of course, a newsman. Mama's expression said it all – _be polite but retreat as soon as it's feasible to do so. _Nancy was practically dragging Cora away when Mary turned her attention to him fully, only to find his eyes regarding her rather acutely.

"You look bored."

Mary baulked, and her eyes widened, although she hoped not as dramatically as her mothers. "What a frank assessment for a first meeting."

"I aim to start as I mean to go on," he said, and she noticed a dimple beneath his sharp cheekbone.

"I see. A risky strategy," Mary replied, looking quickly away from his mouth and back to his eyes, which held hers unblinkingly.

"I meet a lot of people, Lady Mary, and first impressions are important."

"Indeed they are." She raised an eyebrow.

"And I am making a poor one?" he provided, and Mary was surprised to detect a hint of self-effacement as the corners of his eyes creased slightly.

"I think you're doing remarkably well, considering my mother and Lady Astor are watching with barely contained enthusiasm."

Richard's eyes flickered over her shoulder, to where the two women were quick to make much of their apparent interest in a ubiquitous oil painting. "Good intentions?" he offered.

"Are you going to say something about the road to Hell?"

"I wouldn't dream of being so uncouth. And might I be so bold as to suggest that their intention that I talk to you, may not prove entirely hellish for either party?"

"You can suggest it," Mary replied, a flicker of amusement on her pursed lips. "Whether I agree or not remains to be seen."

"Ah." He pressed his own lips together into a small smile. "So, I must up the ante?"

"Oh dear, you're a gambler as well as a purveyor of gossip."

"I like to think I provide something more than gossip," he replied, and a tensing of his jaw made Mary think that perhaps she had offended him. _If only she cared._ "And I am not a betting man."

"No?"

"In a bet there is a fool and a thief," he said. "And I am neither."

"I should hope not." She felt an unbidden flutter across the bare skin of her upper arms that spread into her chest. He looked at her so directly; in a way no man had looked at her since Matthew, as if he knew something about her she had yet to share. _Matthew. _Mary blinked and allowed her eyes to remain closed for a fraction too long.

"Are you quite well, Lady Mary?" Richard asked, and she felt his hand close around her elbow, his rough index finger just brushing the bare skin above her satin glove.

"No," she replied, with a slight shake of her head, before looking at him as directly as he had looked at her. "No. I am weary of this farce, of the enforced jollity of welcoming a new year, with so many absent."

He nodded, if he were taken aback, it did not pass across his face. "I see. You harbour fears for the country from inside your gilded cage?" When Mary did not respond, her expression still, he continued. "Or do you have a more specific anxiety?"

"What could I have to fear, from inside my cage? I am quite safe." And each word was heavy, as lightly as it tripped from her mouth, removed as she felt from the entire room, so that it seemed to swirl around her in an endless pool of gold.

"You will pass through this war unscathed?"

"They say it will soon be over," she replied, her eyes flitting away from his for a moment.

"They said it would be over by Christmas. I fear that a great deal will be lost, perhaps a whole way of life."

"_My_ way of life?" she suggested, her fingers and thumb pinching together at her side.

"Well, that depends."

"On what does it depend?"

"On your choices. On whether you are willing to gamble away your future on something that may never return."

Mary regarded him; she could feel the blood thrumming through her, yet her cheeks did not flush. She felt cool, as if an open window was letting in something of the opaque night beyond the high glass. "Like you, Sir Richard, I do not gamble."

"Then I hope you will consider allowing me this dance, and not believe it to be a risk."

Mary found she did not need to deliberate for long, taking his hand and allowing him to lead her onto the dance floor. Perhaps it was to give her mother and Nancy Astor something to talk about; perhaps it was to call an end to what had been a probing conversation, but the frisson of excitement she felt when his hand rested on her back spoke of something else. He was interesting, that was what she told herself, he was challenging, and unfazed by her cool exterior. He had provided her with an opportunity to voice her dissatisfaction with the evening; it was as simple as that. People looked, but Richard's eyes did not leave hers, even as she let her gaze flicker at the heads that turned as they passed.

"Are you not accustomed to being watched, Lady Mary?" he asked, moving his head to one side so that his words rumbled close to her ear. "I imagined you'd spent your life under a spotlight."

"Goodness. You've been imagining my life in the ten minutes since we met."

He smiled, and his eyes shone darkly in the glare of the room, he did not miss a step. "Not ten minutes. Since I saw you arrive this evening."

Mary pulled back minutely in his hold.

"That was too bold?" he asked.

She looked away. "No. I was just thinking that perhaps this evening has not been as hellish as I first feared it might be."

* * *

At midnight Richard raised his champagne flute to Mary, his eyes holding hers momentarily as he took a sip, before turning back to a laboured conversation with the Duke of Rutland. As he did so he found her image remained very clearly defined to him, and he realized it was difficult to resist the urge to look back at her and away from the bearded man in front of him, who was continuing to intone the delights of dry-fly fishing. Richard was used to beautiful women. He was even accustomed to aristocratic women who teased and flirted outrageously with him, their glassy eyes never quite filled with anything he was able to discern, never quite within reach. They were playing; it was sport. They would turn away like figurines on a music box, ready to unleash the same routine on the next man, tittering and spinning. She was different; he thought he could read quite clearly what lay beyond her imperious expression: boredom, dissatisfaction, and sadness. This last observation he had held back from implying, but he was sure it was there. Perhaps it was some man, some brave hero at the front, doomed to die and leave her behind.

"Beautiful girl." The Duke gave Richard a nudge with the knuckles of his free hand, draining the remnants of the glass held in the other. "Lady Mary Crawley." He jerked his eyebrows. "But a cold fish."

"Oh?" Richard said.

"Mm, we've had them to Belvoir. My wife was quite enamoured with the younger sister, politics and whatnot, you know?" He raised a bushy eyebrow. "Of course, it is possible that it was my conversation Lady Mary found tiresome – I can be an awful bore, so my wife tells me!" He laughed good-naturedly. "She didn't seem to take your offer of a dance in too frosty a manner."

"No," Richard agreed, holding the empty glass loosely between his fingertips until he could deposit it on a passing tray.

"I should better make her acquaintance, before the heir presumptive comes back from the front a decorated general!"

"The heir?"

"Mm." The Duke rubbed a hand across his greying whiskers, a drop of clear liquid remaining, hanging tentatively from one of the rough hairs on his upper lip. "Some solicitor chap, decent sort. Not what one would choose, but I expect Grantham rather hoped a marriage would come off."

"But it hasn't."

"No," the Duke replied, his eyes passing across the other man's face. "Fair game, old boy. A girl like that would do you the world of good, amongst our sort." He winked.

_Our sort. _The man was uncommonly stupid; did he not realize that Richard had infiltrated _his _sort already? He was here, wasn't he? At Cliveden, rather than in one room, at the back of a tenement building, where his mother had perspired and groaned over the great sheets of washing she was forced to dry inside, the rain pouring relentlessly down into the dirty courtyard. _She died just for the rest, _his father had been wont to say, in a rare display of deadpan humour. Richard did not remember his mother resting it was true, or smiling for that matter, not until after she died, when he peered down into her grey face, the lips curling upwards in a way they never had when she was alive. She was strangely colourless, both alive and dead. _Your mother wouldn't like to think of you getting airs, _Richard's father had said, on the last occasion he saw him, saying goodbye at Kings Cross, a crumpled little figure in braces and a shirt so thin, Richard could almost see each bone in his pigeon chest. That had been almost eight years ago.

"I should ask her to dance again," his companion interrupted his train of thought, "before my wife asks _you_." Richard looked up to see Lady Rutland making a swaying bee line towards him, one hand already extended in front of her.

"Excuse me." He nodded at the Duke and turned his back quickly on his exuberant spouse.

"I expect you would like to sing a rousing chorus of Auld Lang Syne now?" Mary said, as he slipped into a gap beside her, stepping back to draw her away from where she was standing on the edge of the family group.

"I'll join in, if you start us off," he said in reply.

"No one here seems inclined to join hands," Mary said, glancing to the band as they picked up their instruments again. "This _is_ a party hosted by Americans."

"Alas, you will be deprived my rousing Scots version of the verse."

Mary smiled, as he eyed her almost playfully. "Maybe next time."

"You think we might spend another new year together?"

"Who knows? Perhaps this war will bring down civilization."

"For the aforementioned reason alone, I hope not." He watched as her lips twitched slightly, her hand moving to touch the long necklace around her neck, and he deemed it safe to continue. "I suppose it would not be 'de rigueur' to request another dance?"

"No it wouldn't," she replied. "But one grows bored of always being decorous."

"Always?" he asked, as she took his hand.

* * *

January, 1915

"But Mary, you danced with him _twice._"

Three days later Mary eyed her mother in the mirror, as she sat at the dressing table in her bedroom, Anna's hands moving deftly to twist and pin her hair. The dismal atmosphere that followed New Years Day pressed in from the deep red walls, yet ever since that evening Mary had felt a lightening somewhere, the usual melancholia of early January drifting out of focus, a flicker of satisfaction catching light behind her eyes; something was different. She felt impervious to the scarlet throb of the room, a room that had never felt the same to her since…since what happened in it. Mama had been in something of a temper, snappy and easily riled. She claimed it was the stretching ahead of the long winter months, but Mary had caught her watching her with an expression, half sad, half frustrated.

"What of it?"

"Oh, Mary!" Cora replied, sharply, sitting more upright on the chaise lounge. "Don't be obtuse."

"Would you have minded so much if I had danced twice with someone who met with more of your approval? You may not have noticed, but the number of eligible young men is strangely depleted." Mary sighed, and gave Anna a smile as she placed the final pin.

"That may be. But the daughter of an earl must still be careful of the associations she makes."

"I happen to think Sir Richard an interesting man."

Cora's blanched. "Do you indeed! I'm only grateful your grandmother wasn't there."

"Oh, really, Mama," Mary replied, her impatience snapping and a crease forming on her brow as she frowned. "You act as if I met him in some back alley. He was at Cliveden for goodness sake. _Your _dear friend introduced us! And he's a friend of the Manners', you know."

"Well, I hardly think that recommends him. You'd find better morals in a back alley than at Belvoir." Cora snorted.

They were interrupted when Edith and Sybil entered the room, stopping their conversation abruptly and looking between Cora and their sister.

"Are we still talking about Mary and Sir Richard Carlisle?" Edith asked, flouncing down onto the edge of the bed, her pale hands fluttering still to press one atop the other. "I mean, when do we talk about anything other than Mary?"

"We haven't even gone down to dinner. Such bitter feelings at so early an hour." Mary sighed. "Did you dance at all that night, Edith?" She turned on the stool, the cool surface of the dressing table sending a tingle through her forearm as she rested it there. "I thought not."

"Don't lets quarrel, surely there's enough bad feeling in the world without that," Sybil said.

"I'm not sure our quarrels have much effect on the disposition of the world at large," Mary replied, her gaze softening as she looked to her youngest sister.

"Well, they certainly affect my disposition," Cora replied, standing up. "And I am tired."

"Mama…" Sybil started in concern, as their mother opened the door and left the room.

"I think Mama expected at least one of us to be gone by now," Mary said, looking back to the mirror and using one hand to test the weight of her hair, where it was coiled at the nape of her neck.

"Maybe you soon will be," Edith said.

"Maybe I will."

* * *

Mary sat in the boudoir, a book open limply in her hand. Rain flicked against the windows, pebbles, one after the other, attracting no-ones attention. The light was inadequate, and her eyes were beginning to sting from the effort of focusing on the words swelling and rolling on the page. The story itself was sitting heavily on her chest, scratching somewhat close to the bone, scouring a cross very near to the mark. A young woman of seemingly independent means finds herself stricken by poverty, and shunned by the society she once enraptured. A cautionary tale, Mary thinks. Am I to be like Lily Bart? Did I dash my only chance, and will nothing else quite do? Did I realize too late that it was not a life I wanted, but someone to share a fragile existence with? Will nothing else keep me alive enough to care?

Matthew did not write. And she had begun to realize that he never would. If peace were to be made between them, it would need to be here, he would need to come to Downton, and she would have to look upon his face and somehow form the words of an apology. She knew, however, that she would not do so. If he came, _if _God were ever so merciful, nothing of consequence would pass between them. They would remain, as if cast in stone, unmoving in a fast flowing river, smoothed and shaped by what ran over them, until what was left was nothing of what had been.

"A telegram for you, milady."

Mary startled, pressing her lips quickly into a smile, and accepting the paper from Carson's hand. "Thank you, Carson."

_Mary darling STOP I must see you in town STOP I am at Guy's but we are turning Arlington Street into an officer's hospital STOP Would your papa allow it STOP Probably not but do come and bring Sybil anyway STOP Can you find a widowed darling to accompany you STOP Oh even if you can't do just come STOP Diana_

Her papa would _not _allow it. Whilst Mary displeased her family by dancing twice with Sir Richard at New Year, Sybil had been locked in whispered conversation with their mutual friend about her role in the Voluntary Aid Detachment. Her sister had talked about little else since, Diana's nursing, Diana's plans to go to France, until Papa had told her he did not wish to hear one more word about Lady Diana Manners. No, he would not allow them to go to Arlington Street, accompanied by a widowed chaperone or not. Unless, of course, they were to take a trip to London under a different guise, to stay with Aunt Rosamund, perhaps. The thought spiraled around her mind. Sybil would be able to satisfy her curiosity in nursing, and Mary would be able to satiate her niggling desire to learn more about Sir Richard Carlisle. A mutually beneficial arrangement seemed possible, and if Mary could trust anyone, then it was Sybil. She would wire her aunt, provide scant details, and yet make clear her somewhat unusual desire to visit London during the most austere month of the year. It seemed so long since she had made plans, hatched a scheme, that a tingle of excitement pricked her cheeks at the thought of what London could offer

* * *

"Oh, Mary, do you think Papa will be frightfully cross?" Sybil asked, as Aunt Rosamund's chauffeur drew the vehicle to a halt outside the townhouse in Arlington Street.

Mary eyed the ambulance parked outside, which was unloading a heavily bandaged supine young man, wrapped in a startlingly white sheet. "I think we must pray Papa does not find out."

Sybil clasped her gloved hands together in her lap, and took a steadying breath. Mary could almost feel the whispers of excitement breathing through her sister's face, a flush rising in her cheeks, even as Mary screwed up her nose at the stench that greeted them as they were handed from the car. A fine rain settled in a glaze over her shoulders. The source of the smell was all too clear; the initially obscured lower portion of the wrapped man was stiff with a yellow exudate, the linen saturated darkly with whatever it was. Pus, Mary thought vaguely, feeling rather faint. Sybil's face was tense now, but she smiled at the young soldier as he was carried through the swiftly opened front door.

Mary had been to the house several times before, during the season; her mother found it wearisome, and failed to be amused by the random state of disrepair of some of the furniture. Equally, Mary did not see the appeal in finding out, in an undignified fashion, if a rot had set into the chair one was about to sit in. The butler greeted them rather awkwardly and waved with a disgruntled air to a long bench running along the wall, as if they were waiting in some village doctor's surgery. Mary had never been to a doctor's surgery, or inside an actual hospital for that matter, and she declined the seat. Sybil too remained standing. Mary thought she could still smell the young man who had entered before them, and she found she was visited by an image of some poor unfortunate nurse having to peel back that sheet, which surely would be stuck to rotting flesh.

"Mary, Sybil, darlings!" That nurse would obviously not be Diana, who emerged, her glassy stare alighting on them immediately, as she plonked a dubious looking kidney dish down haphazardly on a sideboard. She clasped their shoulders and kissed their cheeks in turn. "Oh, I know!" She laughed, as Mary's eyes traveled the length of her long white apron. "Don't I look God's own awful? Probably better this way, I frighten the horses as it is."

"Well, you certainly look the part," Mary conceded.

"I'm doing my bit, Mary, that's the joy of it, and here I'm cheered by visits from my friends. No Matron to answer to!" She gave Sybil a nudge. "Although, I don't know, perhaps Matron was rather better than Mama, she's driving me batty. But I do have my own phone now and I can invite whomever I choose to my new quarters - in the attic! Isn't it a scream? Sleeping where the servants should!"

Mary thought it anything but a 'scream' and struggled to raise a smile. She was spared the necessity of doing so, when the duchess herself descended the staircase behind them.

"Mary, do come to tea with me, my own daughters are far more interested in cauterizing men's wounds," Lady Rutland said, with a sharp look at Diana.

"Cauterizing! We'll make a nurse of you yet, Mama!"

"I am running a hospital, darling. I know the terminology." She waved a jeweled hand. "Do say you will, Mary. Leave Sybil here to be thoroughly put off the idea of nursing."

* * *

Lady Rutland was not subtle, and Mary was not as naïve or as cosseted as she appeared. Her head had been turned by Sir Richard certainly, and the duchess was undoubtedly not the only one to have seen that, but Mary was not going to fall upon him, as every other option fell into the mud in France. _As Matthew fell into the mud_. The older woman's motives were transparent, the further she removed anyone undesirable from her own daughters the better, and placing Mary in the way of any friendship between Sir Richard and Diana would be an advantage. So Mary smiled over tea and sandwiches in a room bathed in gold, in a world that had lost much of its lustre. She smiled, and all the time, she knew she needed no push to find out more about the man who had sparked something she thought long extinguished. She was not desperate to be matched, as Lady Rutland seemed to be insinuating in grating tones, her butter knife moving in quick flickering strokes over a crumbling scone. She would not grasp for an opportunity, but she would not let a chance slip past her either, and Mary found herself agreeing to accompany the Manners party to a dinner that evening.

"You must ask your aunt to join us too."

Mary raised an eyebrow, as the door was opened to the waiting car outside the Ritz. "I certainly will."

Aunt Rosamund would accept such an invitation with some glee, predominantly so she could describe it in painfully acute detail later, to her own mother. Mary doubted she would be sharing many of the details of this visit with _her _mama if she could help it.

"I'm sure Sir Richard will be delighted to see you there." Lady Rutland settled back into the seat, a satisfied smile on her face. "What a stir you caused with him at Cliveden."

* * *

"Diana has done frightfully well, you know," Sybil said, as Rosamund's maid pulled the laces of Mary's corset with an enthusiastic tug. "She assisted in operations at Guy's."

"Did she?" Mary said, turning to face the mirror, as the maid slipped the burnished red gown over her head. She glanced back at her sister, who was leaning against the bedpost with a wistful expression on her face. "Oh, darling, don't get too many grand ideas. Whatever happens you won't be living in nurse's quarters at Guy's."

"And why not?" Sybil demanded. "I could just run off to France and work in a field hospital there."

Mary raised an eyebrow. "You could, but you won't."

"No, I won't, but only because I care too much about upsetting our parents. I just wish they'd show me the same consideration and understand that I simply can't do anything but nurse. The country _needs_ nurses."

"And Mama would argue that she needs you."

"She'll still have me! I could work in York or Leeds. I'd come home when I could. I'm not a child in the nursery."

"Quite so." They both turned as Rosamund entered the room, and waved away the maid dismissively. "I wanted to speak to you both before we leave."

"Oh dear, perhaps we are still in the nursery," Mary said.

Rosamund pursed her lips, and she glanced down to adjust the sleeve of her gown. "Some friendly words of advice are all I intend to impart, Mary dear."

"That's what Nanny used to say. 'Lady Mary, I advise you not to try and fly from the nursery window again'."

Sybil hid a smile behind her glove.

"Jumping from windows has been known at Lady Shepperton's parties," Rosamund replied. "Amongst other things, all of which have led to the ruin of many a young girl's reputation."

_I'm not sure how much of a reputation I've left to ruin_,Mary thought. "You needn't worry, Aunt Rosamund. Sybil and I do know how to behave."

"I don't doubt it, but I'm not sure we will be able to say the same about the rest of the guests," Rosamund said, as Mary slipped on a necklace; it caught on her hair, and Sybil moved to disentangle it.

"I think she means nursing and newspapers are off the agenda," Sybil whispered into Mary's ear.

Mary smirked, and Sybil gave her hand a little squeeze as they followed Rosamund from the room. Mary felt they were colluding, as they often had as children, Mary leading the way and Sybil following willingly, but always with her own motives hidden behind that wide smile.

Rosamund was perfectly correct, of course. Lady Shepperton's party certainly appeared to have little in common with her parents' gatherings at Downton before the war. When they arrived they were ushered into the drawing room, where the guests mingled drinking cocktails, served by Lord Shepperton himself. Lady Rutland was at the centre of a group beside the window, the curtains were open and she seemed embossed on the glassy darkness of the night outside. Her hand was fluttered against the starched chest of a fair-haired man Mary recognized at once; Sir Richard. He reached up to smooth a hand against the side of his head, and as he did so he turned and caught sight of her, an easy smile alighting on his lips. He inclined his head and Mary dipped her gaze in acknowledgement.

"Sybil!" Diana gave a little shriek, and bounded across the room in a dress so very nearly transparent that Mary goggled for a moment at the sight of it. "I made it myself!" Diana laughed, taking Sybil's hand. "Come on, darling, let me introduce you to some of my nursing chums."

Rosamund was being monopolized by Lord Hepworth, who was vigorously indifferent to Mary standing beside them and had turned his back on her, thus blocking her aunt's view. This proved to be rather to Mary's advantage and she allowed herself to be waved over, rather predictably, by Lady Rutland.

"Oh, what a beautiful gown," Lady Shepperton said, her eyes sparkling at Lady Rutland as she spoke.

"Thank you."

"Don't you think so, Richard?"

"I am still recovering from Diana's gown," Richard replied.

Mary bristled. "I understand she made it herself."

"She always has been precocious, multi talented…" Lady Rutland said. "She's theatrical," she added as a high peal of laughter reverberated through the room.

"She certainly is," Richard muttered, catching Mary's eye.

"Oh, Clemmie, darling, you look too_ too_ alluring!" Lady Shepperton called, and with a hand on Lady Rutland's arm they made a sweeping departure that threatened to knock Mary slightly off balance.

"I am going to assume you didn't make your gown?"

"You assume right. I am no seamstress," Mary replied, aware of the frost in her words, although not quite sure why she should be offended that Richard seemed more interested in Diana's dress.

"Can I ask what you do consider your particular talents?"

This time Mary did nothing to attempt to disguise her cool tone, her lips pressing together before answering. "Is this an audition of some sort?"

"When I come here I do quite often feel I am participating in a kind of play."

"Really. And what role would you be cast in?"

"Why villain, of course," Richard said, a smirk pressing the dimples into his cheeks. "The proletariat."

"Well, I don't see you as an aesthete," Mary said.

"So you think such casting a fair reflection of me?"

"I hardly know. Must one always play to type?"

Richard tilted his chin and straightened his posture. "I don't _play_ at anything."

_Don't toy with me. _Matthew's words came back to Mary suddenly, on that last day, before he was gone, before she had watched his face shatter with realization.

"And I have learnt the price of games," she replied. She didn't know why he elicited this honesty in her; perhaps it was all part of his professional demeanour, drawing out the truth in order to sell the spoils.

He nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. "Then perhaps we can avoid the after-dinner parlour games together."

"You're looking for an accomplice."

He smiled, and Mary found herself thinking again that he was handsome, in so different a way from Matthew. "And I think I've found one." Richard replied.

Unsurprising, Richard found himself seated next to Mary at dinner, and at the opposite end of the table to Diana - a state of affairs he was entirely happy with as her voice rang shrilly at the climax of an anecdote.

"…and that was the end of it. I mean some of the stories, they quite make Mama's blood run cold, don't they Mama?"

"Yes, thank you, Diana, that is quite enough."

"I feel we are at the safer end of the table." Richard leant in towards Mary.

"I have long abandoned feeling surprised at the things that set come out with. Although, I do wish Sybil was not sitting with them."

"You don't want her to be corrupted?"

"No I certainly don't, and I think corruption is rather the intention."

"To be unlike others," Richard suggested.

Mary nodded, taking a sip of her wine. "I think sometimes one can try too hard to stand out."

"In your case, you do not need to try."

"You think I'm different? A compliment, Sir Richard?"

"Absolutely."

"And you, are you different?"

"I am different by virtue of being quite the opposite of every other man you have sat next to at dinner in the past," Richard said, and Mary eyed him as he correctly selected the cutlery for the first course.

"And the better for it," she said, and he looked to her quickly, a flicker of surprise betrayed on his face.

"I'm glad you think so."

"Sir Richard!" called a voice from the opposite end of the table, this time, Catharine, Lady Shepperton's eldest daughter, egged on by Diana at her side. "Do tell us the latest tawdry gossip! What will make the morning edition?"

Richard swallowed a spoonful of turtle soup, and pressed his lips together for a moment to dab at them with his napkin. "You can all rest easy. There is no print space left to fill with any of tonight's antics."

"Oh, more's the pity!" Catharine exclaimed. "And I was just about to tell a frightfully scandalous story!"

"Don't let me stop you," Richard replied.

"Well, you may not want to stop me, but Mary might." The girl's eyes widened and her lips twisted into a cruel smile.

Richard glanced at Mary and realized she had laid down her spoon, a flush high on her cheekbone for a moment, before she raised her head and looked down the table, turning her profile away from him.

"You must not mind me," she said smoothly. "Speak as freely as you wish."

Aunt Rosamund's face froze in an attitude of poised horror, and she intervened in a tone every bit as cutting as her niece's. "And_ I_ think you should keep your spurious gossip to yourself."

Her bluff called, Catharine relented. Diana gave a little tug on her arm and a smile to Sybil, who was looking both anxious and confused. "Rumours, rumours," Diana rolled her eyes. "Aren't we all victims of them? Do let's move on Cathy, darling."

The silence around the table was broken by the gentle tingle of cutlery as people collected their spoons, amid raised eyebrows and glances to Mary. As conversation resumed, Richard watched as the colour on her cheek faded. "I'm not sure anyone would take anything she had to say seriously," he said.

"There is nothing to say," Mary replied.

"I thought we were about to see a skeleton thrown from your cupboard."

"Then I'm sorry you've been disappointed."

* * *

Mary was shaken, and despite the chest-tightening chill in the air, she stood outside with her arms wrapped around her, looking out over the darkened garden square. The noise of the party continued behind her, and as she glanced over her shoulder she saw that the curtains were drawn, and she was completely concealed from view. During dinner it felt as if every time someone glanced in her direction, she blushed, but she knew she was more controlled than that. Now she was free to let heat fill her face, as goose bumps rose across her arms and the back of her neck. She leant against the balustrade so that the stone rubbed against her hips and snagged the fabric of her dress.

"Lady Mary?"

She heard the door click shut and a soft footfall on the patio behind her. Mary didn't turn around, but she glanced at Richard as he stood beside her, his palms flat against the stone as he leant forwards slightly, following the line of her gaze. "I don't think much of the view." He looked down at the drop that fell away below them from the raised terrace at the back of the house. "A rather inebriated young man jumped over this balustrade, the last time I was here."

"How unfortunate," she replied.

"Can I offer you my jacket?" he asked.

"I'm not sure it would be appropriate for you to be standing outside alone with me, in such a state of undress."

"We shouldn't be alone at all." His eyes shone as they held hers, and Mary took a quavering breath of air, that seemed to chill in her throat as she swallowed. "But then I'm not sure decorum is held in terribly high regard here."

She felt exposed, and there was a slight tremble in her hand as she reached up and rested her fingers at the base of her neck for a moment, her pulse quivering beneath the skin. For a moment she felt like she had when Kemal Pamuk pushed his way into her room, that electrifying moment when she had had a choice, and made the wrong one. Had he given her a choice?

"Your aunt will be wondering where you are, and I think it might be advisable for you to rescue your sister from the clutches of the corrupt." He paused, brushing his hands together to dismiss the remnants of grit, from where they had rested on the stone.

A wave passed through her, a shiver, a sense of disappointment, for which she scolded herself inwardly. What on earth did she expect or want to happen, out here in the dark, with a man she hardly knew, after all that had happened? Yet perhaps that was why it almost seemed not to matter. _I'm a lost soul. _

"You're right. Sybil had better be saved before her soul is damned irrecoverably."

He held the French door open for her, and Mary felt his hand hover at the small of her back as the gossamer fabric hooked away from the doorway brushed against the side of her face. Inside, the house had become stiflingly warm, and even the proportionally more sedate atmosphere of the drawing room seemed to be pressed underneath a fug of alcohol, cigarette smoke and overzealous conversation. There was no sign of Sybil or any of the other young people. Richard nodded to the staircase.

"Sybil is upstairs?" Mary asked, her eyes widened, and she took hold of the banister, her other hand sweeping up the bottom of her dress as she ascended the staircase.

Catharine's bedroom resembled what Mary imagined a French dancer's boudoir might look like. Everywhere she looked a dress or a length of silk was draped, across mirrors, from picture frames, and over a lamp so that a curious orange glow bathed the room. Almost every drawer was open, as if somebody had been rifling through them. Diana, Catharine and two young men Mary did not recognize reclined on the bed, rumpled amongst frosted waves of bedding. For a moment she thought that they were asleep, and she glanced to Richard who was standing in the doorway.

"Where is Lady Sybil?" he demanded, and one of the men pushed himself up on his elbow, his hair falling over his face and an unlit cigar hanging from his lips.

"Gosh, I don't know. We've all been a little on the unconscious side."

"Good old chlorers," one of the girls on the bed mumbled.

Richard strode over to the bed and tugged up the man who had sunk back against the pillows. "Where is she?"

"Upstairs, old chap, in the attic, I suppose," he slurred, shaking off Richard's hand. "Shut the door behind you."

Mary's stomach clenched and she gazed at Richard in horror as he stalked past her. She followed him and he gave the door a tug shut behind them. "Leave them to ruin each other," he said, his brow furrowed. "Shall we call your aunt?"

"Gracious, no!" Mary replied, horrified, her hand raised to her mouth. "I will go and find Sybil at once!"

"I can hardly let you go alone."

"Well, as you said, nobody here has a moral to string between them, so I think we can do as we please," Mary said, glancing around her desperately.

They climbed the stairs, and Mary gripped the banister tightly, her breath quickening as they finally reached the top floor occupied by the family, and were faced by a door to the servant's staircase. It hung ajar and Mary felt a sickening sense of dread crawling over her skin as Richard moved in front of her, leading the way up the narrow set of stairs. It was dark and cold, the air smelt musty and Mary remembered that the servants no longer lived up here. The footmen and butler were gone, crouched in trenches at the front, whilst the housekeeper and maids slept in rooms near the kitchen. They reached the top and Richard took her hand to help her up the final step so that they were standing together in the corridor. He did not try to release her hand immediately, and when he did Mary found her fingers moved to grip his tightly. She could barely make out his face in the dark, and was glad he couldn't see hers because she felt she might cry, panic twisting her mouth as visions of all the terrible things that could have happened to her sister coursed through her mind.

"Sybil?" Mary called, her voice hitching in her throat, as she looked at the closed doors either side of them.

Still with his hand in hers, Richard reached to push open the nearest door with his other hand; it swung back to reveal an empty room, an iron bedstead bathed in moonlight from the high narrow window. They moved down the corridor, he ducked his head slightly as they did so to avoid the sloping eaves in the roof of the house. Each room was empty, bare, the ghosts of forgotten possessions shimmering in a grey iridescent light. Every possibility of an imminent discovery seemed to force a tighter grasp around Mary's neck, and by the time they'd exhausted the last room, she let out a little cry of relief, pressing her fingers to her mouth and closing her eyes for a moment.

"Oh, thank God," she breathed.

Mary was suddenly conscious that she was still holding Richard's hand, and that he was pressing it reassuringly as she opened her eyes.

"She must be downstairs. Don't worry." He released her hand, and moved to allow her down the stairs ahead of him, but Mary remained still, and was horrified to feel tears begin to course down her cheeks.

A shadow in the dark, and Mary covered her mouth with her hand as she thought of the hot weight of Kemal Pamuk's body on top of her. The difficulty in pushing him off, his moist skin slipping under her fingertips, her nightgown cold as she tugged it back over her head.

"What's the matter?" he asked, his voice gentle but his posture slightly uncomfortable, cautious. "Let me take you back, summon the chauffeur to take you home?"

"I should never have brought Sybil here. You have no idea how little it takes to ruin a girl's reputation." Mary used her index finger to wipe away a tear, biting down on her bottom lip to try and regain a measure of composure.

"I think I do, which is why I suggest we return immediately."

"You hardly need worry about my reputation." She laughed drily. "You must know what they're saying about me!" Her hands opened at her sides and then clenched again into fists. "Wouldn't you claim to know everything that goes on in this city?"

"Your virtue has never been called into question within my hearing," he said. "And if it was, you must know I would defend you most fervently."

"Why?"

"I happen to think very highly of you," he said, and his voice seemed to travel in ripples towards her through the darkness.

"You wouldn't if you knew."

"I think you underestimate me." When he took a step nearer she could just make out the curve of his cheekbone, and the line of his lips. "We all need to make bad choices before the right one." He took her hand again, clasping her fingers through her glove. "I suppose I hoped you might choose me."

Mary felt the next breath flutter beneath her ribs, and she could not escape the sense that this was a moment where her choice could change everything. A proposal, but more than that, it was that elusive opportunity. She had chosen to take Kemal into her bed, she had chosen to refuse Matthew, and now she could choose to accept something that surely would be a risk. And yet here, in this darkened attic, it did not seem like a risk, it seemed like a bar of moonlight, a promise of escape, it seemed like the chance to fall and be caught.

"But it must be a choice," he said. "Not because we've been caught alone in an attic together."


	3. Chapter 3

****_A/N: THANK YOU so much to everyone who has read and reviewed, I so so appreciate it. Special thanks to my beautiful beta, mrstater. The title to this chapter is courtesy of WH Auden, so thank you to him, for that ;)_

**3.**

**We Seldom Keep**

September, 1939

Alexander swung the car round on the stones in front of the Abbey, enjoying the satisfying grind as he drew it to a halt and the engine faded into submission. He lent back in the seat and straightened his back for a moment, pressing his spine into the leather upholstery to diminish some of the tension from the long journey. He could have stayed at Haxby, unpacked, come to, but after he had let his mother out of the car he realized that he wanted to get this over with, that he couldn't wait until the evening. Besides he wanted to do it alone, without his mother and siblings over his shoulder, anxious and uncomfortable with the confrontation. It _would_ be a confrontation. There was no avoiding it. 'Clearing the air'- how he hated that phrase. As if the very atmosphere was peppered with motes of unspoken feelings and unfulfilled desires. Alexander had no time for what could not be spoken about. With a sigh he climbed from the car, smoothing a hand through his hair as he strode to the front door and knocked sharply, squinting up into the falling rain as he did so.

After a few moments the butler opened the door and bade him entry. "His Lordship is in the library," he said, without preamble, stepping aside slightly to allow Alexander through.

"It's almost like you've been waiting for me Dawkins."

_His Lordship-_the mode of address he still associated predominantly with his grandfather, with his indulgent smiles and half-hearted attempts at admonishment. _This place never changes_, Alexander thought. The incumbent will, but the house will stand, absorbing and protecting its history for generation after generation, children running in tireless circuits, up and down the stairs, along corridors, thundering through passages and servants' quarters, with wild breathless freedom. He had always felt so free here, in every pressing, cloying, antique-filled room. Here he was untouchable.

Dawkins opened the door to the library. "Lord Marchmont, milord."

Matthew turned from where he was replacing a book on the shelf. "Alex," he said, surprise quickly corrected on his face. "Thank you, Dawkins." He nodded to dismiss the butler.

"You still expect to see my father," Alexander stated.

"Yes. I suppose I do."

"And I expect to see Grandpapa."

Matthew nodded. "We both have somebody else's shoes to fill."

"Isn't that always the case when inheriting a title?" Alexander strode across the room and stood in front of the window, his fingers resting on the edge of the photograph laden side table.

"One inherits more than a title."

"Indeed."

"Did you have a comfortable journey?" Matthew asked.

"I brought the Phantom. I thought Stephen might enjoy a turn."

"That isn't an offer he's likely to turn down," Matthew replied with a smile. There was a pause. "I'm glad you're here Alex, that we have a moment to talk alone. That is why you came isn't it? To see me alone without your mother?"

"Yes."

"To clear the air?"

Alexander smirked, his face turned away to the spattering of rain outside. He composed his expression into something more polite and looked back at the older man. "I don't want anyone to feel uncomfortable this evening."

"There is no reason they should."

"Once we've cleared the air?"

"I think it's necessary, don't you, Alex?" Matthew replied, his voice suddenly sharp, his blue eyes narrowed.

"I was rude. And for that I apologize."

Matthew eyed him. "I sense a 'but.'"

"I always feel that 'but' rather negates an apology. There is no 'but.' I was discourteous, and I will make no excuse for that."

"Very well. I hope that once you had time to think about it, you realized that my intention has only ever been to help."

"I realize that, and I would ask that you don't," Alexander replied, his jaw tense. "I have everything in hand, and when a problem arises I will deal with it. I do not need help."

"And who will tell you when your behaviour is unacceptable?"

Alexander did not flinch. "You are not my father."

"No, I'm not," Matthew replied, levelly. "Was he the only one who could challenge you?"

"My investors, and my mother, are quite free to challenge me." He tilted his chin, but Matthew smiled, and it was a smile Alexander recognized, the smile given to a precocious child, it was not unkind and yet he felt his hands tense at his sides.

"So you would rather I spoke to your mother, and let her be the one who confronts you?" Matthew said. "Is that really what you want?"

"It is not your place to protect my mother, or to threaten me." The words delivered like a blow.

"I'm not threatening you, Alex. But I will not stand by and watch you behave in a manner that is irresponsible, and careless, in a way that would upset your mother, and anger your father."

"Do not imagine you know anything of what my father would think!" Alexander's cheeks had drained of colour, and the sharp lines of his face glowed white. "I am not a child, and I will manage my own affairs. If you disapprove then, by all means, forbid Stephen from associating with me, tell my mama. Christ! Tell Grandmamma too, for all I care! You may be Earl of Grantham, but you have no jurisdiction in my business or in the way I manage my family."

Matthew allowed him to finish, moistening his lips before speaking, carefully and quietly. "And you may be Lord Marchmont in name, but you have a lot to learn about living up to the responsibilities that title holds." Alexander opened his mouth to speak, but Matthew held up a hand. "No, Alex, do not say anything you may later regret. I would not say these things to you if I didn't care."

Alexander gritted his teeth as he turned on his heel and left the room, brushing past Stephen in the doorway and giving him a brief nod of acknowledgment. Outside it had begun to rain more heavily, and he aimed a vicious kick at the wheel of the Rolls. He wanted a drink, and a smoke, and whatever else Beatrice's pharmacist friend could offer. Most of all he wanted to say everything that he hadn't, everything that now seemed to slide and press together across his mind. He lent his hands on the smooth black shell of the car, the quickening downpour cutting rivets into the polished bodywork, and chilling the skin on his palms. A droplet of rain found its way under his collar and Alexander felt it make slow progress down his back. With a rough movement he tugged open the driver's door and flung himself into the seat, slamming the heels of his hands onto the steering wheel. There was a tap on the window. _Stephen, of course, _Alexander thought, and he indicated impatiently with his hand that he should get in.

"What happened?" Stephen asked, shivering for a minute in the seat, his shoulders hunching as he rubbed his hands together.

Alexander remained facing forwards, peering at the steamed windscreen as his cousin pushed his fair hair from his forehead. Alexander looked at him, he looked like a child, he still was a child, a boy, the weight of expectation and failure yet to drag at his features. Quite often, Stephen reminded him of Christopher, bathed in a glow of protection, always slightly out of step, but better for it. _Yes, better for it. _

"What is going on between you and my father?"

Alexander didn't reply, yanking open the glove compartment and plucking out a loose cigarette and a packet of matches. "God knows." He shrugged, striking the match so roughly it threatened to splinter.

Stephen shook his head, a nervous smile at the corners of his lips. "Are we going to have an awkward dinner?"

"Don't worry, I won't come."

Stephen frowned. "Oh, it can't be as bad as all that. Papa doesn't mean to…" he trailed off.

Alexander blew out the smoke so it wavered in a cloud in front of them, tendrils spreading through the confined space. "Doesn't mean to what?"

Stephen shrugged uncomfortably. "If it makes you feel any better, he was rather cross with me about what happened too."

"I really don't care about that. It won't be the last time you're too drunk to walk, and next time I won't be there to take the blame. It has nothing to do with that, not really," he replied, pushing the back of his head against the headrest.

"Then what?"

"Shut up will you, Stephen," Alexander snapped, taking a deep drag of the cigarette, before opening the door and chucking it onto the wet stones. "Do you want a ride or not?"

* * *

Mary took a sip of tea: it was too sweet, and she grimaced slightly.

"Oh, sorry, Mama!" Florence said, placing her own teacup down with a clatter on the tray. "I picked up yours."

"I'm surprised your teeth haven't fallen out," Beatrice said from the armchair, stirring her own tea in a lackadaisical manner.

"I can't help it. I just have the most terrible sweet tooth," Florence replied with a smile.

"It'll catch up with you," her sister said, with a raised eyebrow.

"Do you remember when I jumped into the lake for the last slice of tooth rot?"

"I do," Mary said, her lips quirking into a smile as she pressed them to the china. "Oliver wasn't far behind."

The atmosphere juddered at the mention of the absent child. Florence bit her lip momentarily but breezed on, refusing to acknowledge the tight press of her mother and sister's expressions. "Darling Ollie. We must send him a care package, before rationing takes hold. You know, chocolate and things. He always tells me how awful the food is when he writes. He says Americans don't know what good food is."

"I'm sure Aunt Sybil feeds him when he goes to her for the weekend," Beatrice said, narrowing her eyes at Florence for a moment, whilst Mary was looking down to replace her saucer on the side table. Florence's own eyes widened and she jerked her shoulders in response, _what? _She mouthed. Beatrice sighed in exasperation.

"Where's Christopher?" Beatrice said, straightening her face quickly as Mary looked up.

"Getting reacquainted with the place, you know what he's like. He says he forgets his way around when he hasn't been for a while," Florence said, adding another sugar cube to her tea.

Beatrice made a small noise of amusement. "Well, as long as he doesn't shut himself in a cupboard or something."

"Do you remember when Ollie hid in the cupboard in the kitchen, under the sink, and jumped out at Mrs Leeson? She threw an apple tart into the air!" Florence giggled to herself. "And when he hid under all those furs in the dark, and Christopher was screaming 'it's a bear, it's a bear!"

The tea burnt the back of Mary's throat, a bitter taste that she struggled to swallow. "Speaking of Mrs Leeson, I should go and discuss the weeks menus with her." She rose from her seat and smiled briefly at her daughters, Florence's wide-eyed surprise at her sudden departure and Beatrice, her fingertips pinched together.

"Yes, well done, Flossie." Beatrice rolled her eyes after their mother had left the room, and leant back into the chair, waving her fingers apart in a dismissive gesture.

"What? I was just remembering happy times, that's all."

"You do realize that Oliver doesn't write to Mama, or to Alex."

"He's angry with them," Florence supplied with a small shrug, smoothing a pleat at the front of her skirt. "For sending him to New Hampshire."

"How perceptive you are," Beatrice said, flicking her index finger and thumb impatiently at the armrest. "Of course he's angry. Expelled from Eton and then packed off to school in America, who wouldn't be?"

"It's like we're a piece missing."

"We're going to end up with several pieces missing."

"Maybe Alex won't go, surely he won't _have _to, because of the papers. Propaganda and things?" Florence asked, her mouth twisting over the words.

"He's going to go. You heard him, he won't change his mind, he never does."

"Whenever I think of Alex, I always see him when he used to come home for the holidays, from Eton. The way when he ran up the stairs he'd be dropping clothes as he went so that he could get changed quicker, and come outside to play with us."

Beatrice winced. She remembered. She remembered all the happy times they'd had in this house all too easily, yet now they gave her pain, a twisting spasm in her stomach, because Papa was gone, Oliver wasn't here and soon Alex wouldn't be either. She thought of her cheeks flaming hot, the suffocating press of the quilt over her head, the thin bar of light where they were holding the sheet up for air. Florence struggling to stifle a giggle, and the feel of the soft flesh of her side as Beatrice elbowed her – _shhhhh! _– too late and a shadow would pass across their air vent before a great whoop went up and their brothers tugged the sheets away and set upon them. Beatrice could still feel the desperate gasp for air as she was tickled into submission, a tangle of kicking feet and pushing hands. _It'll end it tears! _Nanny would say – _They won't be mine! _– Beatrice and Alex would shout in unison.

Oliver was the cry-baby, until Christopher was old enough to toddle after them, and then that role had been bestowed upon him. _Oh, baby boy! _Oliver would tease as Beatrice scooped Christopher up and dried his wet cheeks with the edge of her dress – _Mama's poor baby! _Oliver lived with a sense of being usurped, Beatrice could see that, and whatever rebellion already existed in his personality was heightened by that niggle of injustice at having his role changed without due notice. She would watch him fight back tears, jut out his chin and seek to be much more like Alex, and much less reliant on clamouring to hold Mama's hand at any possible opportunity.

"I think of Oliver chasing you down the stairs so you fell almost the full flight," Beatrice said.

"Oh, yes!" Florence laughed. "Wasn't I knocked out?"

"Mm, which I suspect explains a great deal," she paused, her hand reaching to smooth the pearls around her neck. "Ollie cried terribly then. I don't remember him crying more before or since."

"He thought he'd killed me," Florence said, lightly, plucking a biscuit from the topmost tier of the stand.

The memory prickled at the angle of Beatrice's jaw, and she swallowed, her fingers pressing a single pearl. Florence; lying at the bottom of the stairs, the streams of her long hair obscuring her face, and a single terrible ribbon of blood lining the marble beneath her head. Beatrice had screamed, a noise like a bullet piercing the air. She remembered the slap of running feet, only the sound, because her eyes were pressed so tightly shut that they throbbed. When she had opened them her sister had looked like a doll, her face smooth and her neck bent back at an angle as she was lifted from the floor. Beatrice had thought then that Florence would fall apart, that her arms and legs would loosen and spill onto the ground with dull _clunks_. Afterwards she had snuck into the wardrobe in the nursery and removed the dress Florence had been wearing, the red satin with a sash that tied in a bow at the back, and she had taken it into the attic where she had pushed it into a trunk.

"I'm sure it was much worse for all of you. I just had a frightful headache when I woke up," Florence said, brushing the crumbs from her fingers into the saucer.

"It isn't my happiest childhood memory."

"I think Ollie's been trying to make it up to me ever since!"

"We're a set, it wouldn't do to lose one of us," Beatrice said, avoiding her sister's eyes.

* * *

Mary found herself in Richard's study, shutting the door behind her and letting out a breath as the darkness of the room tensed around her. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn across the window, a line of grey daylight illuminating the room enough so that it came into focus by degrees, the bookcase, the desk, the leather chair and the tiny cracks in the upholstery. Mary sat on the swivel chair in front of the desk, where she had kept Richard company late at night, _so many nights_, the pungent smell of his cigar smoke filling her head, his easy smile as he glanced up at her from the ledger. _Wouldn't you rather go to bed? _he had asked, all the lines of his face softened by the dim glow from the lamp, the fountain pen slipping from his fingers as she smiled back at him. _You've kept me company through enough dark nights, _she'd replied_. _His hand reached across the desk and took hers, _Dozing next to you counts does it? _Her fingers squeezed his back. _You have always been there when it counts._

Mary closed her eyes. Richard breathed through this room. His pen lay in the indentation at the top of the desk and she ran her finger along the groove, her fingertip hovering over the pen itself. She pressed her hand closed, withdrawing it as if burnt and holding it to her mouth for a moment. Facing away from her were the backs of numerous photograph frames and she picked one at random and turned it, knowing whose face would look back at her. Alexander; serious and poised, in full Eton dress, the tilted chin, the high cheekbones and slightly narrowed eyes beneath a top hat, looking out with firm resolution. A son to be proud of, and Richard had been so very proud of him. She placed the picture down, propping it towards her. One by one she turned each photograph round. Florence, who reminded her forcibly of Sybil in so many ways, Beatrice, who was more like Mary than she was entirely comfortable with, Christopher, who worried and fussed, clinging to a golden childhood that was gone, and Oliver. Oliver who thought he was difficult to love, who raged and pushed but was the first to fall into her arms, the child who felt out of place, who underestimated how vital his part was.

Mary had no desire to go to Downton tonight, or to see her mother, and hear her bemoan the missing American faction, extradited across an ocean, one through choice, the other through necessity. Sybil and Oliver: the ghosts at the feast, and the war the topic of dinner conversation. Mary felt exhaustion start to beat around her brow and she thought how much easier it would be if Richard were here. He had been a constant at her side, even when he was not physically present, she felt his support, his hand, and it buoyed her. She had not noticed him pull her closer until they were absorbed together, until she suddenly understood what it was to have a partner. The loss was a hole, a plunging absence of sensation that ran through her core. Behind her the doorknob twisted but Mary didn't startle, knowing who it would be even before she looked.

Alexander did jump, recovering himself quickly. "Oh, hello," he said. His hair was damp and the moist smell of rain travelled into the room with him. "I just…" he trailed off, squinting in the gloom.

"Such a large house, yet it's still so difficult to be alone," Mary said.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize you came in here. I'll go," he frowned at the photographs turned on the desk.

"Don't go," she replied, looking up to catch his eye. "Alex, I need to talk to you."

Alexander drew himself up, puffing out his chest, and smoothing back his hair, his eyes snapping away from hers. "Is this where you become angry?"

"Have I moved through the other phases?"

"Silent, cold, dismissive," Alexander ticked them off on his fingers. "As long as we stop with angry then I'm quite satisfied with that."

"You know _me_ so very well do you?"

He shrugged. "You're my mother."

"Then you will let me speak and have the respect not to interrupt," Mary said, looking up at him steadily until he lowered himself to perch on the edge of the desk, arms folded across his chest. "You do not_ have_ to go, at least not yet, and I would ask that you wait to receive your papers. If not for my sake, then for the business."

Alexander blew out a puff of air, looking away. "I can't wait."

"Why not?" And now Mary felt her composure slip, her face twist into what was becoming a plea. "Alexander, please!" She reached out and took his arm, as he refused to look at her.

"I will make sure the necessary structures are in place to manage everything in my absence. You must have my voting shares as well as your own." His gaze travelled to hers briefly, and he swallowed. "I'll be indisposed, and I don't want decisions to be delayed. I trust you to make the right ones."

"You're making it sound so final," Mary said, a lump forming in her throat as her hand dropped from his forearm.

Alexander smiled. "I'll come back in one piece, don't doubt that."

"Cautious Carlisle?" she said, a tremulous smile.

He raised his eyebrows. "And if I can't be cautious, I'll be calculating."

* * *

"I suppose Alex has told you then," Beatrice said, regarding Stephen who was warming his hands in front of the fire in the sitting room.

"Told me what?" He blinked, turning to where she was leaning back in the chair, her legs crossed laconically. He tried to avoid looking at her slim calves for too long, and looked back into the fire, feeling his cheeks burn.

"That he's volunteering to be cannon fodder."

"What?" Stephen frowned.

"Volunteering. For the army," she replied, her eyes holding his briefly.

"Oh. No, he didn't."

"Ridiculous of course," she said, airily.

"What do you mean?"

"So selfish," she said, and her eyes flashed, glancing up at him to challenge him to disagree.

"I'm not sure I'd call it selfish," Stephen replied, but he felt the colour surge anew in his cheeks, and he licked his lips self-consciously. Why was she always so challenging? Why was everything a parry, a prod to encourage a retort?

"No?" Beatrice snapped. "I would. Alexander has always been selfish."

"And stubborn," Stephen said, with a shrug. "You being cross with him won't help."

"I don't want to help!" Beatrice said, lunging forward with a violent motion and seizing the cigarette holder. "Light this will you?"

Stephen withdrew a somewhat damp packet of matches from his pocket, his fingers fumbling under the card to seize one and strike it. The flame danced between them for a moment as Beatrice lent close to his hand. The match burnt down, a blackened rod quickening towards his fingertips and stinging the skin there, before he withdrew it and shook it out.

"Did it burn you?" she asked, idly, sitting back in the chair, her elbow propped on the arm.

"No, I'm fine," he replied, feeling himself wilt under her dark gaze, before sitting in the chair opposite her. "What does your mama think?"

"Oh, I don't know, that she can't stop him probably. I think she bloody well could," Beatrice swore. "But ultimately who is going to challenge Alex? Now that Papa is gone?"

Stephen shifted uncomfortably, unwilling to be drawn. He always felt an intruder into these complex intertwined relationships that existed between his cousins, a depth of connection that, being an only child, he could not understand, a dependence on each other that at times was so hidden under vitriol that it was almost as if they hated each other. He knew they did not. They were a force, and as a child they had exhilarated and frightened him, tugging him along behind, so for a brief period he was almost one of them. What he remembered most was their need to scare each other, the drive to find more and more creative ways to send each other's shouts to screams of pure terror. _Those children are rather wild_, his mother would say, mildly, as Stephen returned to her side, panting and exhausted, desperate to go home but at the same time unable to leave the high pitch of emotion behind._ But they're such fun! _he had once said, and they were, the fun had changed but they were always the centre of any party, impervious to consequence.

"You won't sign up will you?" Beatrice said, before blowing a thin stream of smoke, the fingers of her other hand fidgeting.

"I suppose we will all be asked to go."

"Well, just don't volunteer, for God's sake."

* * *

"Oh, here you are, at last!" Cora said, rising from her seat, arms outstretched to kiss first Mary, then each of her grandchildren in turn.

"You came," Stephen whispered, giving Alexander a sideways glance.

"I'm on my best behaviour."

Beatrice leaned in, a cocktail already in her hand. "Yes, save the bad behaviour for later, darlings."

"Oh, you're talking to me are you?" Alexander raised an eyebrow at his sister.

Beatrice sniffed, raising her glass to her lips and taking a drink, before looking back to him. "It would appear that way."

"What's happening later?" Stephen asked, accepting a drink from a footman.

"Some chums are driving up, a little party at ours," Beatrice said.

Alexander cleared his throat and drained the remnants of the cocktail, the sweet residue left at the bottom of the glass slipping over his tongue and making him cringe. He had forgotten about Caroline's impending arrival, and the prospect made him feel that even this uncomfortable family get together was preferable. He looked around the drawing room, his jaw tensing as he saw Matthew lean in towards his mother as they stood by the fireplace. His grandmother was listening in rapt attention to Florence's blow by blow account of her first weeks at university, Lavinia nodding along politely, even as her eyes flickered warily to Alexander. No doubt Cousin Matthew had told her of their conversation, an abridged version no doubt. Alexander had the impression their conversations were not entirely free flowing, that whatever he may think of Matthew at this particular moment, he kept their disagreements largely private from his wife. Alexander had often caught Lavinia looking at him, as if he were a dangerous and unpredictable entity, ready to whip her son away in some drumming, thundering game. He did not dislike her, but she always seemed slightly misplaced, cautious in her role, anxious not to hurt anyone's feelings until the last possible moment, until her own emotions threatened to overflow.

"You haven't brought that nice friend of yours, Alex," Cora said, beckoning him over to sit beside her as Florence got up to admire a newly acquired vase with Lavinia.

"Caroline?"

Cora nodded, a smile, her eyes sparkling. "She's such a charming girl."

"Mm," he replied, non-committal as he shifted on the sofa, his grandmother's gaze regarding him with keen intensity.

Alexander doubted Grandmamma would consider Caroline quite so charming if she knew about some of the things she got up to.

"Perhaps at Christmas?" Cora pressed.

"Maybe," Alexander replied. "We shall have to see."

"I don't like to think of you sitting alone in your office," Cora said, her eyes widening as she patted his arm.

Beatrice was unable to hide her amusement, rolling her eyes and concealing a snort behind her cocktail glass. "I don't think you need to worry, Grandmamma. Alex isn't a dull boy."

Their grandmother smiled indulgently. "Of course he isn't, but I like to think of you having fun with other young people."

This was too much for Beatrice and a high laugh escaped her lips, as she exchanged her empty glass for another full one. Alexander glared at her before turning back to Cora.

"I think you're best off imagining him behind a desk!" Beatrice said.

Alexander felt the powerful urge to tell her to _shut up. _Across the room he could see their mother watching them, a frown creasing her brow as she turned her elegant profile in their direction. She caught his eye, her gaze flickering to Beatrice, he responded with a small shrug as his sister drained the cocktail she had just picked up with alarming speed. If Beatrice was going to drink, she would _drink_, and there would be little he could do to stop her. Alexander imagined her friends would inevitably come armed with more than the contents of their parent's wine cellars, and he was in no mood to babysit her. Florence too was looking to Beatrice with a nervous smile. With a squeeze of Cora's hand, Alexander got up and put his arm firmly through Beatrice's, propelling her across the room and behind the embroidered screen that stood beside the grand piano.

"What?" she laughed, shaking off his hand, and dropping her glass onto the rug.

Alexander took hold of her elbow. "Just stop it will you," he hissed. "You'll have your fun later."

"Since when are you so keen to keep up appearances in front of the Crawleys?" She smirked, brushing her hand down the metallic silver of her gown and grimacing at the smudge her damp fingers caused.

"To make this evening easier for Mama perhaps?"

"Oh, Mama's golden boy!"

"Shut up, Beatrice." Alexander sighed.

"I've one brother thousands of miles away, and now you, going to war!" Her voice teetered somewhere between a sob and hysteria.

"You act like I'm going to die."

"You might!" She shook off his hand.

"I think you know how melodramatic you sound."

"I can't bear it! What will I do?"

"And you say I'm selfish." He shook his head and brushed past her.

* * *

"Sibling tension?" Matthew asked.

"Hm?" Mary looked back to him as Florence took hold of Beatrice's hand and guided her to the chaise lounge. "Oh, you know what they're like. Something is always up." Her lips pressed together, her eyebrows raised as if to elicit a smile.

Matthew did not smile. "I'm afraid Alex and I have fallen out."

"Oh?" Mary feigned surprise.

"He hasn't said anything?"

"No." She glanced away, feeling exposed under Matthew's knitted brow.

"He thinks I'm interfering, but I'm just concerned."

"Concerned?"

"I don't want you to think I'm over stepping the mark," Matthew continued.

"Is Alex in some kind of trouble?" Mary frowned.

"I'm not sure I need to tell you the details, he isn't a child, but you know I will help when I can."

"You're being awfully cryptic, Matthew," Mary replied, sipping from her glass, her shoulders tense. "But I would rather you didn't keep things about my own children from me."

"I haven't tried to unearth anything awful, but I cannot always turn a blind eye."

"Always?" Mary snapped, her throat tightening and her fingers clenching around the glass as she eyed him coolly. "Goodness, it's almost like you want to tell me that my son is an irresponsible reprobate."

"I think Alex has a great deal of responsibility, how well he manages that is what concerns me. And I'm sure you would agree that, at times, his behaviour has been regrettable."

Mary could feel a burn of colour on her cheeks, and she found she did not want to hear any more of what he had to say. She turned her face to watch Alexander studiously ignoring Florence who was trying to engage him in conversation. _Prone to recklessness. _He was too far out, he had pulled away, and since Richard's death the small boy who had curled into her lap and confessed the contents of his heart, was gone, shade by shade he disappeared, and a young man who behaved somewhere between son and husband remained. She knew when Matthew looked at Alexander he saw Richard, and the lines of caution around his eyes spoke of a time when he had wanted to utter similar words about her husband. _I do not want to hear it, _she thought.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Heavens Opened**

March, 1915

"I just don't know what Papa is going to make of this," Mary said, her hand resting on the iron balustrade, turning to him so the light cast a glare onto her cheek. "Us, dancing on the graves of a fallen family."

"You're not superstitious are you?" Richard replied, a smile alighting on his lips.

Mary raised her eyebrows and inclined her head. "I don't know."

"Bad luck? A curse?" he teased.

She gave a small shrug. "I'm sure bricks and mortar can't contain such things."

"I certainly feel more comfortable here than in your happy ancestral home," Richard said, his eyes moving away from hers for a moment.

Mary stiffened. Their engagement had not prompted an outpouring of enthusiasm from any quarter, that was certainly true, and as Richard squinted in the cascade of sunlight pouring from the glass cupola above their heads, she wondered if he was more discomfited by the fact than he let on.

"Well today Mama and Papa are distracted by seeing Sybil off to London."

"If only they could trust you to make the right choice." He spread his palms and leant forwards slightly over the balustrade. "This bar is a little low," he said.

Mary smirked. "Lets try not to make a habit of leaning over it then."

"I'm mindful of safety, you know." Richard smiled, taking her hand and chafing her fingers with his thumb.

"Are you really?"

"Safety and comfort."

"In that order?" She asked.

"I think they're both quite vital to a happy life."

"I suppose we don't want to worry about children leaning over this," Mary said, tapping the rail with her free hand, holding his gaze.

"Indeed," he said, and the smile lit his face, the dimples so incongruous beneath his hard cheekbones. "I'll have it ripped out and replaced."

For one strange fluttering moment, Mary had the sensation that Richard would burn this house to the ground and re-build it any way she chose if she asked, that he would do anything she asked.

"Are we going to be living cheek to jowl with workmen?"

"Today is their only day off. Like your grandmother, I am not a great believer in week-ends."

"I hope you will be when we're married. Am I ever going to see you?" she asked.

"I have earned the luxury of Sunday rest, and a few more days besides. I'll show you the study." He tucked her hand through the crook of his arm and led her down the gallery.

Richard pushed open a door before they reached the corner, to display a room paneled in oak; handsome carved bookcases worked into the walls, the smell of recently polished wood pungent in the air. Mary's eyes focused on the window that ran nearly from floor to ceiling, and was filled by the marbled dark sky outside. The myriad rainbows from the chandelier hanging over the saloon, still dancing on the periphery of her vision, vanished entirely, like the sun shone only above the dome itself. A rumble cracked somewhere in the distance and rolled towards them across the fields, to throw itself against the huge empty house. Without warning the rain shattered through the cloud, slicking against the windowpanes as if thrown by a wrathful god. Richard turned to her. "I think you were right about bringing the car."

Mary raised an eyebrow. "I think it is actually _hailing._"She stood in front of the window, her gaze following the trails of water, slapping and pouring over the glass.

"Its just as well there's a great deal to explore here. By the time we're finished it will have stopped and we can walk back." He shifted next to her and when Mary glanced at him he was frowning. "I'm sorry. I should have thought. We might be late for dinner."

Mary's lips twitched. "Oh, Richard, for a moment you almost looked genuinely distressed by that fact."

He looked away from the window and caught her eye. "You're right. I don't find the prospect of an extended period alone with you especially distressing."

Mary lowered her eyes for a moment, and as Richard turned his body towards her, he took her hands in his. "You do like the house?" he asked, that tinge of insecurity evident again in the creases of his forehead.

"Yes, I do like it."

"It's befitting an earl's daughter?"

Mary's lips pursed. "It's probably rather more than I deserve," she said, meeting his look waveringly.

His brows knitted. "I don't think that's the case."

"Richard," she began, her face still, every movement controlled as she let her hands go loose in his, lest he think she was imploring him to understand what she had to say. "My behaviour has not been befitting an earl's daughter…"

"Mary," Richard refused to yield his grip on her hands. "There is nothing you _need _to tell me."

"I do. I should have told you before I accepted you." She felt nauseous, the back of her neck prickling as the drumming of the rain beat a painful rhythm against her temple. "The Turkish attaché who died at Downton, did so in my bed." The words unfolded cut by cut inside her mouth and she could almost taste blood, a metallic bitterness at the back of her throat, as she looked up to meet his eyes again.

"You made a mistake," he replied, after a short pause, his voice firm but his expression gentler than she had seen, more understanding than she thought him capable of. Yet he could not understand.

"I can offer no excuse."

"I'm not asking for one." Richard released one of her hands, and raised his fingers to touch her cheek, his hand was cold and it soothed her flushed skin. "Your secrets are my secrets now, but your life is your own, and you only need tell me what you want me to know."

"You don't want to know the dark recesses of my heart?" she asked, tensing as his fingertips rested on the underside of her jaw.

"There is nothing too dark for you to share with me, but I won't ask," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper, his thumb resting on her chin to tilt her mouth up towards his as he kissed her, once, softly and carefully, his other hand moving to rest at her waist. When he pulled back Mary stepped away too, to gain some distance between them, to examine his face for the sincerity she felt in his kiss. Richard dipped his gaze for a moment, turning to glance at the window. "Perhaps they'll send a car," he offered.

"Thank you," she said, her hands itching inside her gloves as she pressed them together in front of her.

Richard reached up and removed his trilby, holding the rim of the hat loosely in his hand as he turned away. Mary swallowed uncomfortably, unable to read the expression on his face.

"For kissing you?" he asked, his back to her.

"For trying to understand."

"I hope I do understand," Richard replied, he faced her once more, harder, businesslike, and yet with his hat removed he seemed almost boyish. "I don't pretend to be a great sentimentalist, but I hope the gratitude you feel is not connected to the fact that no-one else is willing to have you now."

Mary's jaw clenched, and she could still feel the moistness of his lips on hers although her mouth was dry. "That is not what I meant. But you're right, I am damaged goods."

"And that isn't what _I _meant. I suppose pride dictates that I don't want to be a last resort."

Silence weighted the distance between them, and Mary fought the urge to close herself off completely from him, to retreat, to step away, run down the uncarpeted marble staircase and plunge into the rain. Was he second best? She had hesitated in accepting Matthew, a fraction too long, and the depths of her secret had been too much to reveal to him. Why? Because she did not feel he could accept it, she would be changed irreversibly in his eyes and he would turn away, she had been almost sure of it. _Almost._ Now she would never know if she had misjudged him. Richard offered her what she thought she could never have, a man of her choosing, who would not cast her aside once he knew, who would stand beside her unflinchingly. Somehow, she _knew_ he would do that: he was an ally, and he saw through to what she hid from everyone else, and he didn't recoil.

"I could not marry a man for the sake of expedience," she replied. "Or to merely please or displease my family."

"Then what tips the scales in my favour?"

"You are my choice. And in my life I have made very few choices of my own."

"You will not regret this one." Richard stepped forward to close the gap between them, dipping his head to kiss her cheek. Mary caught his arm and her lips found his, and for the first time since that night she felt a band around her chest loosen, she felt something of herself revealed and soothed under his touch. Richard's hat fell to the floor and his hands gripped her waist and pulled her against him, propelling her backwards a step so that the shelves of the bookcase dug into her back. Mary gripped the thick tweed of his coat and felt the heavy press of his body against hers before suddenly he pulled back, releasing her and stepping away. Richard passed a hand through his hair, half turning away as if to regain his composure for a moment. A rumble of thunder built, echoing in the room, the flash of lightning that followed searing Mary's vision with white light. Richard rubbed his brow, stooping to collect the trilby from the carpet.

"Shall we see the rest of the house?" he asked, avoiding her eyes.

"By all means." Her heart was pounding, and she could still feel the grip of his hands around her waist.

* * *

"We have seen every bedroom, drawing room and billiard room. As well as each pantry, scullery and meat safe," Mary said, unable to resist rolling her eyes. "And the rain has not stopped. You really would think Papa would send Branson to collect us."

"He must think more highly of me than I thought."

"Or, he's been so busy worrying about Sybil's induction into the world of nursing that he has completely forgotten I exist." Mary huffed.

"Perhaps Branson is on his way, the driving conditions are hardly ideal. Shall we sit somewhere and light these?" Richard asked, holding up the candles he'd found in the kitchen.

"Sit where? On what?"

"Or I could carry you several miles through the rain?"

"Are you likening yourself to a certain fictional romantic villain, or are you the hero?"

"I don't think there would be anything heroic about being the reason you contracted pneumonia."

"Mm." Mary looked up at the ceiling, at the twists of wood that were worked into the corners of the paneling and spread like spines to a point in the centre.

Richard followed her line of sight. "I was thinking of having this ceiling redone. Plastered, so we can commission an artist to paint a mural?"

Mary tried not to let her distaste show, but the narrowing of Richard's eyes suggested he detected it in the press of her lips. "Too gauche?" he asked.

"I think this room is quite fine as it is."

He smiled. "I'll save the mural idea for somewhere else."

"The en suite bathroom, perhaps."

"You're afraid I'm planning to turn this house into a modern eyesore." He stepped closer to her, and Mary felt her breath quicken at the memory of his warm mouth against hers.

"Not under my guidance," she replied.

"Then I am entirely in your hands."

"Goodness, what a responsibility."

"I'm sure you think I've got a lot to learn." He put the candles down on the window seat, before spreading his hands, and Mary noticed they looked as rough and work-worn as they'd felt on her skin.

"I'm a patient teacher," Mary said, and this time she reached for his hand.

"But I will be duly admonished for mistakes?"

"Is that not a part of learning?"

"None of us should suffer interminably for our mistakes, do you not agree?"

She did agree. She had suffered, and it had felt like it would never end. The threads began to loosen, breaking and disintegrating around them. The ghost departing, the press of Richard's fingers through her glove drawing her through, the suffocating weight of Kemal's body leaving her. Another roll of thunder cracked and built outside, shuddering through the room and resounding from the walls.

"I will give you the life that you _do_ deserve," he said.

"And in return?" Mary swallowed, the remnants of a business arrangement lingering in his words.

"We can save those sort of declarations for our wedding day." He squeezed her hand. "Now, what are we going to do about this situation?" He gestured at the window and the continuing rain.

"Light some candles, and see if perhaps we've overlooked a cupboard of board games."

"My father taught me to play chess," Richard said, righting the candles and reaching into his coat to take out a packet of matches, the flame illuminating his face briefly so that Mary was reminded again, how very handsome he was. "Unfortunately his own grasp of the rules was rather questionable. Needless to say, I was duly expelled from the chess club."

Mary could not recall Richard alluding to his childhood in the few months since she'd known him, and all she knew of his father was that he was alive and living in Edinburgh. "My father used to play board games with us on rainy days. They always ended badly, Edith storming off, crying. Sybil overturning the board to relieve the tension…"

"And you?" he asked, turning back to her with a wry smile as the candles jumped into life on the window seat.

"I had always won, so what else mattered?"

"Of course," he grinned, striding across the room to collect a pile of dustsheets and put them on the ground by the candles. "Perhaps its as well there aren't any board games."

With a brief show of displeasure Mary sat down on the pile, her knees pressed together as Richard sank down beside her, his own legs splayed so his elbows rested on his thighs. "You don't have brothers or sisters?" she asked.

"No," he replied, removing his hat and discarding it to one side. "Well, that isn't entirely true. I had several, but they all died."

"Oh," Mary said. "How awful."

"Not an unusual story," Richard said.

"What did your father do for a living?"

"He worked for an undertaker, making coffins, a mute at funerals."

"Is this when you tell me you had an Oliver Twist role of your own?" Mary asked.

Richard turned to her, his shoulder brushing hers. "Actually, I did. Thankfully such tradition is largely gone. My father spent most of the time doused in gin. It was cold, miserable work." Seeming to sense her discomfort, he smiled. "I still carry off a top hat remarkably well."

"I'm sure you do." She shivered slightly, a draft from the window bending the flames of the candles. "You had a difficult childhood," she said, finally.

"No more or less difficult than the vast majority of the population. But rather different to that of the privileged few," he said, with a glance at her. "I will warn you now that I can't ride a horse."

"It isn't a vital requirement," Mary said, and as she said the words she felt her cheeks colour slightly as she thought how dismissive she'd been of the mere way Matthew had held his cutlery, and now here she was, engaged to a man who had been an undertaker's mute.

"You look cold," Richard said. "Will you accept my coat this time, when there is no-one to discover us?"

"Yes, thank you," she replied as he shrugged his arms out of the heavy tweed and placed it over her shoulders.

"It's kept me very warm. I think it was rather too thick."

"It's for shooting," Mary said, as he placed it around her shoulders.

"Ah," Richard said, tilting his chin. "You might have to dress me for the country, as well as teach me to ride a horse."

"I wonder how much all those things really matter."

"If they matter to you, they matter to me."

She looked at him, his eyebrows knitted in earnest, and she believed him. "Why don't you tell me what matters to you?"

"My work has always been the most important aspect of my life, but it has been everything to me for too long."

"It won't comfort you when you're old?" Mary asked.

Richard grinned. "The money it's made me might. But no, I don't want to die alone at my desk."

"My, that doesn't sound like a newspaper magnate speaking."

"Even I have a sense of my own mortality."

Mary looked around the bare room, the neglected opulence, and for a moment she too had a sense of how easy it was to lose out, to opt out, from necessity or by design. She had once told Carson that she knew she would never be happy, but she had not known, she had _decided_. She decided that there was no way back from the point she'd reached, and even though her love for Matthew had grown, it had never quite been able to flourish past that barrier.

She had been to birthday parties in this house, cosseted affairs where children played sedate party games, and a nanny hovered at each back, to deal a swift tap to any young charge keen to overindulge on cake. Mary recalled being bored, not by the routine nature of present giving and musical statues, but by the inevitability of it all. The fact that she would have fun, grimace as the birthday boy spat all over the cake whilst he blew out his candles, and then it would end. It would be nice, and it would end. Perhaps to an extent that was what she felt with Matthew, not that she was bored, but that it was too perfect, too precious, and too likely to end. She glanced at Richard. He was not perfect, and she felt easier for it, safer.

"Could you still be happy, if your work was all you ever had?" she asked.

He looked to her, but she kept her face in profile, until he too turned away to look ahead of them, half of his cheek darkened and quivering in the flame of the candle. "I thought I could. But I was wrong. I'm not sure I know a great deal about being _happy._"

"Were you happy as a child?"

"I don't know, so I suppose the answer must be no. I was surviving and there is some joy in that, but not much room for outright displays of happiness, for things that stick in the mind." He paused and smiled, almost apologetically. "I'm afraid I may be making my boyhood sound rather pathetic, a real life member of Fagin's gang."

"You survived, there is nothing pathetic in that."

"I think you are also a survivor."

"Not in quite the same way."

Mary met his eyes, darkened in the grainy light, the drumming of the rain an ever-present beat against the window behind them.

"We all have scars," he said, his voice low.

"And are they not ugly?" Mary asked, her eyebrows raised, but her composure faltering.

"You will be beautiful to me regardless," Richard said.

"My," she replied, shakily. "That might be the most romantic thing you have ever said to me." _That anyone has ever said to me._

Mary almost thought she saw the colour in his cheek deepen, but the light was failing, and at first she was not sure what she saw in his face, as she allowed her fingers to touch the slightly rough skin of his cheek. She let her hand caress the angle of his cheekbone and her fingertips moved to rest in the soft hollow where his jaw met his ear. "Perhaps we can survive whatever comes next together?"

"I am quite certain we can survive most things together," he whispered, and as she lent forward she inhaled his words, and they tasted like an oath.

She kissed him, and she did not think of Matthew, or of Kemal, as her other hand rested against his chest and her fingers closed around the material of his waistcoat to pull him closer. He removed her hat, his thumb by her ear and his fingers tangled into her hair. Mary felt a prickle of heat across the back of her neck and she shrugged his jacket from her shoulders, taking his face in her hands.

"I think I prefer this to chess," Richard said, as they parted, his lips still touching hers. Mary let her hands fall to his shoulders, and she found herself easing her fingers underneath his jacket to remove it. His eyes widened slightly in surprise and he slipped his arms from the sleeves. "You can't bear to see me in the wrong tweed for a moment longer?"

Her lips curled into a smile. "No."

"Well, let my education begin in earnest," he replied, moving to kiss her once more, but chastely, his hands lightly at her waist, so she could feel the restraint in his touch, and the caution in his kiss.

"Are you afraid neither of us will survive the scandal of being found like this?" she asked.

"With six weeks until the wedding, I hope I have sufficient self control to prevent such an instance occurring." He swallowed, his Adam's apple rolling above his starched collar, a flush on the side of his neck.

"Have you ever lost control?" she asked, as his hand moved to take hers.

His eyes shadowed and he lowered his gaze. "Of course."

"An experience not to be repeated," she said. She had allowed a man into her bed, a man she barely knew, with whom there was no chance of any kind of future. An unthinking action that had so nearly derailed her entire life; but now she was thinking, and she did not feel like she was losing control, she felt as if she were gaining it, grasping hold of the future as she removed her gloves and slipped her hands underneath his waistcoat, to lightly touch the taut muscles of his lower back through his shirt. She kissed his neck, and felt his breath quaver in his chest.

"It's almost like you're trying to lead me astray, Lady Mary." His voice rumbling against her lips where they rested against his skin.

"Very well," she murmured, raising her face to look into his eyes. "I'll go and search for a chess set." Mary stood, brushing the creases from the front of her skirt, and casting her gaze to the window in a show of feigned disinterest.

Richard pushed himself to his feet hastily, dislodging the pile of dustsheets so they spread across the floor. He took one of her hands and tugged it slightly so she looked back at him. He tilted his chin to look down on her slightly, the fingers of his other hand resting at the curve of her jaw. With his eyes sparkling in the gathering dark, Mary saw a man who needed little encouragement to flout the rules. "Lets not be hasty," he said, leaning to kiss her, and this time she detected no caution and very little restraint, and she welcomed it, embracing the fact that she could indeed do as she wished, here with him, for what else really mattered?

"You don't wish to do things properly?"

"I'm not sure that's who we are," Mary replied as her back hit the wall.

Richard undid the buttons of her coat and slipped his hands around her narrow waist, dipping his head to kiss her neck. Mary could feel the press of his fingers underneath her ribs, and she felt as if he was drawing each gasping, shuddering breath from her, and she wasn't just allowing him to, she wanted him to.

"Maybe this is the way to exorcise any demons from this house," Richard said, as his fingers moved to undo the buttons of her blouse. Her breath caught in her throat, and he looked up, his hand stilled against her chest for a moment. "I can stop. You can tell me to stop," he whispered.

"Don't stop," she breathed, as he kissed her collarbone.

"Are you sure?" he mumbled.

Mary pressed her hand to his cheek and met his eyes. "I have made my choice."

This would not change it. She didn't want to turn back, and she wanted it to be too late to do so. Outside the sky was rolling, darker upon darker waves beyond the window, when inside they were untouched, as if cast out on a tumultuous sea, buffeted in an impenetrable vessel. Richard kissed her again, his hands falling to her back to unbutton her skirt and slide it down over her hips. When she slipped her hands inside his shirt he flinched, and she ran her fingers down the dip in his back to the waistband of his trousers.

"Your hands are cold," he murmured.

"Then I must warm them up," Mary said, letting her blouse slip down her arms. She undid the buttons of his waistcoat.

"You are beautiful," Richard said, standing still as she tugged his tie away from his collar, his eyes roving over her bare shoulders.

Mary felt herself tremble as she opened his shirt, and let her fingers hover over the firm skin of his chest. Richard pressed his hands either side of her hips and turned her around so her palms were flat against the wall. She closed her eyes, and she felt him tugging at the laces of her corset. She had never been undressed by anyone but a maid, but she suspected, no, she _knew_, that she was not the first woman Richard had eased from her corset. She was not distressed by the fact, they were neither of them unmarked, and Mary felt exposed under his touch, revealed, but not vulnerable. She gasped as she felt his warm breath on the back of her neck. As he loosened the last string, she let the corset fall to the floor between her and the wall, the loss of its constriction providing a measure of relief. She bent slightly to untie the straps of her stockings, but Richard reached round so his large hands covered her slender ones and did it himself. He let his hands rest on her thighs for a moment, before she turned back to face him and their lips met. This time Mary did feel her control slipping and she wrapped her arms around his neck as he lifted her up, pushing her harder against the wall, her legs entwining around his waist.

Richard's fingers dug into the underneath of her thighs, and Mary could feel the heat of his skin through her chemise, the weight of his body pressing her into the wall. He held her tighter and stepped backwards, so she could feel the muscles of his forearms tensed against her back as he lowered her onto the pile of sheets. He paused, his arms either side of her where she now lay, the dark seeming to coat them as she let her legs fall from his back. Richard kissed her at the base of her neck, and she could not help but close her eyes as he supported his weight on one arm, whilst with the other hand he slipped off the remnants of her underwear, hastily followed by his own trousers.

This certainly was not doing things properly, but the feelings that the rules need not apply to her had never left Mary. _The world is changing. _Her world had changed, and it could not be undone, so she would no longer try, and maybe someone like Richard was what she had wanted all along, someone who would make her untouchable, someone with whom she did not need to hide. He discarded his undershorts onto the pile of clothes and tugged one of the sheets over them, eliminating the cool air of the room to send them into a flutter of warmth as the sheet billowed in a wave above their heads for a moment before covering them. Mary ran her hands through his hair as he kissed a path across her chest, the fingers of his left hand trailing down the dip at her waist and over her hip, where his grip tightened. She arched her back and wrapped her leg around him, drawing him closer so that he groaned into her chest.

"A new beginning," he said, his cheek pressed to hers and his lips at her ear.

Mary gasped, as 'going back' became out of the question, and she pressed her fingers into the dips at his shoulder blades, the muscles of his back rolling under her hands. She did not want to go back, she would never go back, and the past seemed to converge and flatten behind her, blank and as grey as the room around them. This was the behaviour of a fallen woman, an inevitable repeated misdeed, except that this time she knew she would be caught, and the freedom that gave her was like nothing she had felt before. She was everything society said she was, and with him, it did not matter. Any thought seemed to slip through the mesh of her mind, until nothing held, nothing except the feeling of Richard, the thunder of building pleasure, and the sound of her own voice as she cried out.

* * *

May, 1915

"If I were to be completely frank, I would declare this the most vulgar display I have ever had the misfortune to witness," Violet said, under her breath.

"I think you are being quite candid enough, Mama," Rosamund said, arching an eyebrow above sparkling eyes. "But I must agree. Never has Cora's background been so acutely obvious. I can hardly believe Mary consented to any of this."

Violet gave a snort of mirth. "Quite. I suppose it could have been worse, the full _American_ tradition dictates that the gifts are displayed _prior_ to the wedding."

"Mary looks rather strained," Rosamund replied, with a smile to a guest passing by the damask clad table to their right, where an ostentatious array of silverware was displayed. "Although, I would look much the same had my new husband delayed my honeymoon - to Scotland of all places – to deal with _business_."

Violet shuddered, adjusting her position on the chaise lounge. "Perhaps they should wait until after the war is over, when a rather less…_grim _option might be available."

"Mary, darling," Rosamund said, as Mary extricated herself from one of the guests and sank onto the chair beside them. "What a lot of silver. Where will you put it all?"

"I hardly know, Aunt Rosamund," Mary replied, with a sigh. "I have a headache just contemplating the endless storage possibilities."

"I was just saying to Rosamund; it is such a shame the war has put paid to all comfortable travel. It may have helped you rekindle some of your bridal glow."

Mary swallowed, pressing her lips together as she caught her grandmother's eye. "Heavens, do I look so very awful? Should I retire to bed at once?"

"You will endure this occasion to its completion, unless you have a very good reason to retire." Violet raised an eyebrow, and held her gaze a fraction too long so that Mary looked away, a flash of colour on her cheek. "And it being less than two weeks since the wedding, I feel we must put any sickly pallor down to fatigue."

Mary felt it would be desirable to remove herself immediately from her grandmother's attentions, but thought that if she stood up she would probably faint, possibly onto a table of precarious displayed china. This tea party had certainly not been her idea, and she would much rather have sent thank you cards and allowed the gifts to be absorbed into everything else they seemed to have acquired to move into Haxby.

"And when will the house be ready for habitation?" Rosamund asked.

"Richard says it won't be more than a few weeks."

"I see. Everything has come together remarkably quickly." Rosamund picked up her teacup from the table, and watched Mary over the rim.

"Yes, well, Richard doesn't like to waste any time."

"That is evident," Violet said.

"Mary," Cora hissed, sliding over to them. "You need to be circulating."

"I think you are doing enough circulating for both of us, Mama. And to be perfectly honest, I can no longer recall who I've thanked and who I haven't, so I think I will just give up now and allow you to do the rest."

"That really won't do," Cora said, her smile floundering.

"Fine." Mary sighed and rolled her eyes.

She stood and felt instantly light headed, reaching to steady herself on the edge of the table, as a wave of nausea brought out beads of perspiration on her forehead.

"Mary, dear?" Cora asked, taking her arm. "Are you unwell?"

"I think I must be," she replied, shakily. "Excuse me." Covering her mouth with her hand, Mary made a hasty departure from the room, leaving Cora flustered, her smile tightening.

"She's exhausted."

"Hm," Rosamund mused, exchanging a glance with her mother.

"And what is that supposed to mean?" Cora demanded, in a high whisper.

"I didn't say anything." Rosamund's eyes widened in mock surprise. "And I quite agree. Mary is clearly exhausted, she must be left to rest."

"Well, why she couldn't wait until after tea, to be overcome by tiredness, I do not know," Cora huffed, leaving Violet to give Rosamund a pointed look as she replaced her teacup in the saucer.

* * *

"I can't say I feel entirely comfortable residing in your bedroom," Richard said, tugging at his tie, and turning to glance at where Mary was sitting up in bed, a book open in her hands.

"We're married, whatever bedroom we're in," she replied, with a smile.

"Of course, and for appearances sake, I am technically sleeping on the bachelors corridor. I think Carson is taking a perverse pleasure in sending my breakfast tray there every morning, so I have to traipse down several corridors in order to eat and dress."

"Well, it would hardly be proper for your valet to dress you here."

"I suppose not," Richard said, laying his clothes over the chair.

Mary closed her book. "I've been meaning to ask you. Do you not own a pair of pajamas, or is it some sort of strange custom that requires you to sleep in your undershorts?"

He grinned and raised his eyebrows, throwing back the sheets and getting into bed beside her. "Do you find it terribly alarming?"

"No," Mary replied, unable to resist smiling back at him. "But what if there was a fire?"

"If there was a fire, my lack of nightclothes would be the least of anyone's worries."

"My mother would have a heart attack."

"It's just as well there is no reason for your mother to see me in my undershorts then." He leaned back against the headboard. "And I couldn't help but notice that I received a somewhat frosty reception from your mama this evening, my dear."

"It's not you. I didn't live up to my role of gracious bride this afternoon," she said, with a sigh.

"The past two weeks have been somewhat relentless, your smile faltered, that is understandable."

"I'm afraid it did more than falter."

Richard leaned across to kiss her. "We will have a Scottish castle to ourselves in less than a week." His hand reached to touch her neck. "You need not smile once the entire time."

Mary kissed him back, and she thought not of their first chaste kiss at the altar as man and wife, but of him biting her lip as he gripped her hips on the floor of Haxby's dining room, when nobody was watching. The wedding had been everything one would expect, as lavish as she had ever dreamt of, and the only nick in the occasion, the undeniable glimmers of either disapproval or disappointment that seemed to run through the expressions of her family. Isobel came, kissing Mary's cheek and giving her hand a squeeze, almost as if all was forgiven, although the hardness around the older woman's jaw suggested it was not. How could it be? When she had everything; a future, and Matthew was gone, so far removed from Downton it was almost as if he had never been there but for the whisper of his name on their lips.

"What excuse did you have to give to escape the interminable display of gratitude this afternoon?" he asked, his fingers trailing to her collarbone.

"I felt rather unwell."

"Really?" Richard asked, with a smirk.

"Yes, really," Mary replied. "I'm sure I'm simply exhausted," she added, with a quick smile and shake of her head, when his brow creased with concern.

"I would like to say that Scotland will cure whatever ails you, but alas, I can't vouch for the weather in that regard." His eyes glittered in the candlelight. "But, I can promise to be the very best of company."

"And that is the only assurance I need," Mary replied, resting her fingers underneath his cheekbone.

Richard fell asleep almost at once, on his front, his arms folded beneath the pillow so that she could see the toned line of his bicep in the shadow. He looked younger in sleep, his face smoothed, his hair falling slightly onto his brow. She sighed, and leaned to extinguish the candle beside the bed, a sweeping dark descending on the room, so black that she was completely blind to her surroundings, only the sound of Richard's regular breathing holding her in place. Mary felt light headed as she leaned back, and an uncomfortable feeling close to panic clutched at her chest, almost forcing her from the bed to draw back the curtain in search of moonlight. She blinked, and slowly the room reformed hazily, so she could at least see his outline beside her. Breathing shakily, she lay down, on her side, his face inches from hers, and considered waking him.

Mary had lain awake on many occasions, with terrible things vying for position in her mind, and nobody to tell them to, nobody she wanted to tell. This was not terrible, and yet she had been unable to say anything, her face falling into her usual mask of composure. Was she worried about how he would react? _Yes_. But more than that, she was worried about her own response, of what she had yet to allow herself to feel.

"Richard," she whispered, in a tone that was certainly unlikely to wake even the lightest sleeper, and if she had learnt anything in the last few nights it was that Richard was not a light sleeper, her tossing and turning in bed leaving him undisturbed. "Richard?" she said, a little louder, his name tightening in her throat, and her hand moving to shake his shoulder.

He did not stir. She nudged his arm once more with increased vigour, and said his name, so that this time he grunted and shifted position, although his eyes remained shut. Anxiety gave way to annoyance, and an increasing desperation to be unburdened from the pressing silence of the room. "Richard!" Mary snapped.

"Hm?" He rolled onto his back, jumping in alarm when her hand touched his arm again.

"Are you awake?"

"What? Yes. What's the matter?" he groaned, rolling onto his side to face her. "Is there a fire?" He yawned.

"Should I make myself decent?"

"There isn't a fire," Mary replied.

"So, you've woken me simply for your own amusement? I warn you, Mary, I am very disorientated if woken suddenly." His hand moved to rest on her hip.

"Not that disorientated," she said with a smile, as he tugged her closer to him.

"I'm finding my bearings."

"I think you've found them." Her hand rested against his warm chest, and she felt her own heart quicken.

"Mm, is this why you woke me?" he asked, slipping his hand under her nightdress, his fingertips trailing up her thigh.

"No," she said, and she thought that he must surely be able to hear her heart pounding, or feel it pulsing through her skin, rising and falling in a sickening wave.

"Well, whatever the original purpose, I can think of a few good reasons to stay awake now." His hand clasped her waist, and Mary could make out the line of his cheek, the blurred edges of his shadow, and she could well imagine his expression. This was rather cowardly, she thought briefly, to impart such news in the dark, to disguise her own fears as well as his. Yet she knew she could not bear to see even a flicker of doubt on his face, or for him to see it in hers. Was this who they were? The truth, shrouded in darkness? She had looked him in the eye when she had told him about Pamuk, and there had been no fall through a catalogue of horrified expressions as she perhaps expected, so she underestimated him. If he thought she was afraid, he would not ask. She need only ever tell him as much as she wished to, and if she was underestimating him now, he need never know. This safety, this privacy for the vulnerable parts, made it easier to imagine sharing that with someone else, with him, who would not force, who would not demand a reason for every feeling, a motivation for every action.

"I couldn't sleep," she said, finally.

"I see." And she could hear the drifting quality of someone fighting sleep in his voice, his hand no longer gripping her against him, his fingers relaxed on her skin. "The thought of remembering to write a thank you to whoever bought that hideous claret jug weighing on your mind," he said, drowsily, and Mary thought she could make out his eyes closing.

"I should have said something before, but I wanted to be sure."

"Sure about what?" Richard murmured.

"I'm pregnant."

The air seemed to possess the weight of a body, bearing down on her, and the silence that followed smothered her next breath. "What?" His voice seemed far away, although she could feel his breath on her lips. "What did you say?"

"I'm pregnant, Richard," she repeated. "And I'm afraid Granny suspects, so the timing could prove rather awkward," she added, as if to breeze over the initial revelation.

"Timing," he said, dumbly, alighting on a word at random.

"That day, when we were stranded at Haxby," Mary added, pointlessly, her mouth suddenly very dry.

"Yes. I'm familiar with the occasion you're referring to." There was another pause, an elongated, thundering silence and for a brief moment Mary considered leaving the confines of the bed. But then his hand, which had slipped back onto her thigh, moved back to the dip of her waist. "Well, that is a shock," he said, but the steady timbre had returned to his voice.

"Yes, well, I suppose we weren't thinking," Mary said, swallowing the lump in her throat.

"It just shows the benefit of spontaneity," Richard replied, and Mary could hear the smile in his voice. "If there was electricity in this damn bedroom I would turn the light on, and dazzle you with a smile most unbecoming of a ruthless press baron."

"Oh," she breathed, unable in that moment to conceal her relief. "You're pleased."

"Yes, I'm pleased. Do you want me to go out to the hall boy and request a candle, wearing only my undershorts, so that you can see the pleasure etched into my face?"

"That won't be necessary," Mary said, feeling the thudding in her chest recede.

"Perhaps I can find another way to convince you then." His lips brushed hers, and his hand tightened around her waist. Her fingers trembled on his neck, where she could feel his pulse, flickering rather more quickly than could be considered normal. He kissed her deeply, and Mary closed her eyes, her body relaxing against his, her insecurities disintegrating into the darkness.

"That was quite convincing," she said, as they parted.

"It was meant to be." And now his hand passed over her waist and lay against her flat stomach. "I think we have both made the right choice."


	5. Chapter 5

**_A/N:_**_A huge thank you to everyone who has left feedback, I so so appreciate it. And thank you to anyone who is reading, I hope you're enjoying it :) As always, massive love to my wonderful beta, mrstater, whose enthusiasm always spurs me on :)_**  
**

**5.**

**Revels Ended**

September, 1939

"Mama is almost certainly onto us, you realise that don't you?" Alexander said, glancing at his sister, her head pressed back against the headrest and her eyes tightly shut. "And if you are sick in this car, I will kill you with my bare hands."

"Oh, Alex, do shut up," she murmured.

"And just how many of your Roedean chums have you invited?"

"Oh, you know, the usual crowd." Beatrice opened her eyes; she thought that she might well be sick. "And Rex, of course."

"_Of course_," Alexander replied, looking back to the darkened road ahead.

"Oh, Bea, you won't be silly, will you?"

Beatrice twisted to look over her shoulder into the back seat; her sister's plaintive voice matching the somewhat anguished expression tugging at the corners of her mouth. She was such an actress. "Don't be a bore, Flossie. You're an awful prig. Do you know that? And the worst of it is, it's such a _performance_, as if a fleck of white powder has never passed your delicate nostrils."

"Perhaps I've learnt my lesson," Florence said, quietly, as Beatrice turned back to the face the front, her head spinning as the sudden flurry of both speech and movement caught up with her. "Mama is not going to believe we've gone to bed, and she'll see all the cars."

"Well, if she has any sense, she'll turn a blind eye," Beatrice said.

"Why are you being so horrid?"

"Have you taken up religion in your two weeks at Cambridge?"

"I just don't see why you must push your luck all the time. There's a war, surely there are more important things now than a party."

"As our dear big brother pointed out, there need be no end to the parties, simply because some of us are stupid enough to want to get ourselves killed."

Beatrice looked at Alexander, his face dark and in profile, as the car roared down a narrow lane, the hedges either side hissing for a moment against the bodywork. He did not look at her, but she could see the dip beneath his cheekbone as his jaw clenched, his upper lip curling. She had riled him all evening. She had wound up everyone to the point that, when she declared Alexander was going to drive her home to bed, no one objected and her mother had barely looked at her, turning back instead to her conversation with Lavinia after kissing both Alexander and Florence in turn. A parting jibe had curled on her lips, but as she opened her mouth to speak, her siblings closed in on either side of her, propelling her from the room between them. She _was_ horrid. Florence was correct, but in questioning the reason, she was doing as she always did and glossing over what they both knew. Beatrice blamed her mother, and that feeling concertinaed, folding over and over, before opening out against her mind so that it was in every crease, every line. _It is your fault, and that is why._

"Oh, look they're all waiting for us," Beatrice said, sitting forward in her seat, making a vain attempt to adjust her appearance without the aid of a mirror. "Caroline too." A sly glance to Alexander.

"Oh, Alex!" Caroline flung herself against him, so that Beatrice and Florence both had to side step to avoid her, as she involved their brother in what was a somewhat graphic kiss.

Beatrice rolled her eyes, as the rest of the young men and women lounging against their cars made their way over to greet their hosts. The front door had already been cautiously opened by Saunders, whose lips were so pinched he almost seemed to be in pain. Beatrice laughed, and gave his shoulder a pat as she breezed past him, a flurry of evening wear in her wake as the giggling contingent surged into the hallway in the manner of a break in, the darkness narrowing behind them as the door was shut.

"Milord," Saunders said to Alexander, who was considerably looser since his passionate embrace, Caroline hanging from his arm, her gown revealing an ample amount of her chest.

"We'll be in the east wing, you shan't hear a peep from us. You might have Haines remove the cars to the garages. No need to mention our guests to my mother."

"Yes, milord," Saunders said, both words dripping with the desire to say 'no.'

Beatrice felt a strong hand at her elbow, sweeping her around on her already unsteady feet at the bottom of the marble staircase, so her palms rose to press against the chest of her captor. Rex grinned. "Beatrice Carlisle, do say you'll marry me."

She glanced at the ribbon of guests ascending ahead of them as they mounted the sweeping staircase, ten or fifteen young, beautiful people. Friends collected, used, entertained, courted for whatever morsel of amusement they could provide in return. Beatrice required very little she didn't already have, except one thing, and Rex was the key to that, the bridge to an intoxicating plain. And maybe something more, although she didn't really care to think of him in that regard, his dark eyes regarding her now with the wolfish quality her father had so despised. "I rather think not," she smirked.

"Shame," he said, linking her arm through his as they followed the others. "What a wonderfully incestuous arrangement we could have. You and I, my sister and your brother."

Beatrice made a noise in the back of her throat, halfway between a snort and a laugh. How absurd, she thought, for him to think that there was even the remotest chance that either she or Alexander would consider marrying into Rex and Caroline's family. Their parents, the Bartons; Duke and Duchess of Rainbridge: insufferable snobs. A decaying ancestral home, a family plagued by inbreeding and generalized financial instability, relieved only by the beauty, and at times, dubious, charms of their youngest members.

Lady Rainbridge had once come across Beatrice in something of a compromising position, not with Rex, but his cousin Freddie, in the conservatory of Colliston Hall, and she had screamed. A yelp that stung the ears, an expression on her face reminiscent of a death mask, mouth open and slack, cheeks flat and colourless. _I'm going to wire your father immediately! _Beatrice had extracted herself from the probing hands of Freddie enough to tug down her dress and laugh: _My Papa would never believe a word you said! _Whether Lady Rainbridge had ever said anything to her father, she did not know, but Beatrice rather hoped she had, only to receive a similar derisory laugh. She dismissed thoughts of Papa quickly, releasing herself from Rex's grasp at the top of the stairs, and sweeping ahead of him down the corridor, well aware the effect the low cut back of her gown would be having on him.

"I wonder if you've always been such a bad girl," Rex said, catching her wrist and tugging her against him, so he was leaning back against the balustrade of the gallery.

"And what makes you think I'm a bad girl?" she asked, watching as a dark curl of hair fell onto his forehead, his hands moving around her waist, the chandelier blurring behind his head.

"Experience tells me so. And I suppose I wonder what the psychology is behind that, my dear."

"Don't make me push you over the balcony, Rex."

His full upper lip rolled back slightly to reveal sharp incisors, and Beatrice felt herself tense in his grip, as his gaze pinned her to the spot for a moment before she attempted to pull away. Rex held her fast; turning quickly so it was her back against the ornate gilt rail, she who could feel the air of a long drop rushing against her bare skin. "You know I will only let you push me so far, and that however wicked you may think yourself, you are deliciously vulnerable beneath the surface."

The alcohol of the evening seemed to drain through her, and for a moment she thought he would actually push her. "Let me go."

He smiled, and something passed from his face, curling away from his handsome features like a thin skin, minutely mismatched so that it disfigured him only briefly before falling away. He scooped his arm around the small of her back and drew her around in a circle, catching up her hand so they were almost in a dance hold. "Let's see if I've brought something with me that could contort your perfectly appointed face into throes of ecstasy."

* * *

Before he could object, Caroline steered Alexander into the furthest room of the suite, shutting both doors behind her to block out their friends. She smiled at him, turning her face to one side, her elaborately pin curled hair set in dark rolling waves, pulled behind her ear, the diamond drop earring shimmering from the lobe, a drop of snow. Alexander tilted his chin, straightening to look down on her as she advanced towards him, pale hands outstretched to slip inside his dinner jacket. Caroline closed her eyes; long dark lashes falling on her smooth cheeks as she pressed her face against his chest for a moment. "Oh, darling, I have missed you. Have you missed me?"

"Mm," Alexander replied, as she pressed herself against him so his hands rested at the bare small of her back, where the gown dipped to a 'v.'

"You might sound a bit more sure." Caroline swatted his chest, extending her arms over his muscular shoulders. "I'm risking life and limb coming here, you know. My mother has expressly forbidden me to have anything more to do with any of you. And she says you're the most frightful bounder!"

Alexander smirked. "Does she?"

"She does," Caroline said, the tip of her tongue flicking between her lips for a moment as she moved her face closer to his. "She says you are too handsome for anyone's good," she paused. "But how can that be so? How can one ever be too handsome?"

"I rather think your mother has a crush on me herself."

Caroline laughed, in her forced, trilling way, like a bird broken off in song. "Don't lets talk about my mama. Make love to me won't you?"

"I think I should at least make a show of playing the host first."

"Before you ravish me on the floor?"

"Yes, indeed."

"Do kiss me, at the very least."

So he kissed her, her mouth pressed furiously to his, hands raking through his hair, a sharp nail scratching the skin on the back of his neck above the collar. She loved him passionately, obsessively, with a compulsive need to touch and hold onto him at every given opportunity. Caroline had little physical restraint; she was overzealous in demonstrating affection, as if pushing a point to the limit of comfortable acknowledgement. Rex was the same; possessive, and Alexander disliked the way he touched Beatrice, forcefully, the occasional flash of gritted teeth. His sister was a match for him, that much was certain, and Alexander recalled one occasion when he himself had been poised to step in, a red cloud of fury shimmering over his vision as Rex pushed Beatrice through a doorway, thinking they were unseen in the dark corner of a club. Just as Alexander was wound to deliver an ungentlemanly display of aggression, Beatrice had slapped Rex, quickly and firmly across the face. At which point he stepped between them.

In Alexander's eyes Caroline had an advantage over her brother: she was a voracious lover. Her act of possession afforded him intense gratification, and he found he enjoyed pretending to submit to her will.

"Rex has brought some rather smashing stuff with him," she said as they parted. "As pure as the driven snow." She took his hand and twirled so he raised his arm over her head and spun her in a circle. "Although do tell your sister to take a book to bed, she'll only waste it."

"Bea?" Alexander frowned.

"No, Florence. We gave her some at that party; I can't even remember whose. Weren't you there? Oh, darling, she had a frightfully bad reaction to it. Poor Bea, almost responsible for the untimely demise of her little sister!"

"What?" he snapped, releasing her hand.

Caroline rolled her eyes, and sighed, half turning to the door. "Don't get your knickers in a twist. Rex threw a champagne bucket of ice over her and she snapped out of it."

"Beatrice should have known better."

Caroline threw her head back and laughed, reaching to take his hand again. "Oh, darling, don't get upset. Little Floss isn't an angel either."

"Don't call her that," Alexander snapped, at the use of an endearment confined only to their family.

"Oh, come, see what Rex has for us."

Alexander allowed her to tug his hand as she opened the door into the extravagant room beyond. Their mutual friends already falling onto the bed, kicking off their shoes, so that one soared so high that it flicked onto the thick red canopy above. It's owner roared with laughter, standing up, his feet sinking into the thick quilt, reaching above his head to push at the material in an attempt to dislodge the shoe. Rex leant against the bedpost, a cigarette lit in his hand, his jacket discarded over a priceless Chinese vase that sat atop a nearby pedestal. Alexander picked up the dinner jacket and handed it back to him, his expression inscrutable.

"Smile, won't you? You're quite free to explore my pockets yourself," Rex said, a teasing sneer on his lips. "Or are you too well mannered for that?" he said, with a wink at Caroline who narrowed her eyes at her brother in annoyance.

Rex, with all the poise of a conjuror, slowly withdrew a clear bag of white powder from one of the inner pockets of his jacket. One of the other young men started up a low customary cheer, quietly at first, and building in intensity to a whoop once the pack was fully brandished in the air.

"Bravo," Beatrice said, her eyebrows arched in deadpan amusement.

With a gesture of his hand, Rex indicated to one of his cronies to clear the gilt side table of ornaments. Two silver photographs frames quickly dispatched on top of the chest of drawers, as a reverent group gathered around, pressing in against each other. Rex poured a small amount of powder onto the table, taking a calling card from his pocket in order to fashion the granules into two lines. "Ladies first," he grinned.

Beatrice did not hesitate, taking the rolled up banknote offered to her. She leant over, pressing her index finger to one nostril, Rex's hand resting on the small of her back.

* * *

"Thank you, Stephen. But I could have called for Haines." Mary smiled, tightly, as the car drew to a halt and Stephen got out to open the passenger door for her.

"It's quite all right. I rather hoped I might have a word with Alex."

Mary's eyebrow quirked. "I doubt he's asleep."

Stephen shifted uncomfortably.

"Must I go _straight _to bed, Mama?" Christopher asked, with a look at Stephen, as if suggesting he should be complicit in engineering a delayed bedtime.

"Yes, you must."

"The others certainly won't be in bed you know," Christopher said, unable to resist.

"I don't doubt that," Mary replied. "But they have the benefit of several years on you."

"I hate being the youngest," he muttered.

"I'm sure it has its own advantages," Stephen replied, with a shrug as they entered the house, nodding to the butler as they passed him in the doorway. "You always have someone to turn to."

"They think I'm a spoilt mama's boy," Christopher said, morosely, as Saunders helped Mary from her fur. "And they leave me out of everything. You wouldn't understand."

Stephen thought he understood quite well how it felt to lurk on the edge, never quite au fait with routines and rituals, not quite privy to the secret language. Celebrating his nineteenth birthday the month before he had been lavished with attention, but really, all he had wanted was to slip into that tight circle where Alexander, Beatrice and Florence were laughing, their heads pressed together, two blonde and one dark, those waves with their tinge of burnished chestnut, excluding all others. Christopher had the advantage of being adored, however much his siblings teased and wearied of him, and Stephen was envious of the boy as he was pulled to Beatrice's side and a kiss planted on his cheek. Ridiculous, to be jealous of her thirteen-year-old brother, entirely pathetic.

"Will Alex be in his room, do you think?" Stephen asked Mary, her hand in a sulking Christopher's.

"Lord Marchmont is in the east wing, milord."

"And what is he doing there, Saunders?" Mary asked.

"I'm afraid I don't know, my lady."

"Well, perhaps you'd like to go and find out, Stephen," she said, and he withered slightly under her gaze. "I am going to bed. Please have Havers come to my room, Saunders, thank you."

"Mama, I think…" Christopher began.

"And _I _think if you wish to win the approval of your brother and sisters, you should say nothing more."

She knew what they were up to, how could she not, and yet somehow Stephen felt the weight of responsibility was on him to intervene if necessary. He bade them goodnight at the top of the staircase and set off in the opposite direction along the gallery. He heard the sounds of laughter, as he walked through the sitting room that marked the beginning of the east wing of the house, and gingerly turned the handles of the double doors into the anteroom beyond. Behind the next set of doors a party was undoubtedly occurring, and the smell of cigarette smoke wove fingers beneath the polished doors to tickle Stephen's nostrils. He hesitated, his eyes moving to a display of antique knives mounted along one scarlet-papered wall. A sickle dagger held pride of place, it's blade curved upwards. The scabbard beside it was beautiful, seemingly impractically woven in red silk with a heavily embossed gold tip and throat. Stephen could not imagine the blade could enter that sheath without tearing through the material, piercing strands of silk, ripping and defiling, threads hooked at the base and sliced.

He opened the doors, and Florence caught sight of him immediately. "Oh, hullo, Stephen! Stephen's here everyone!"

He licked his dry lips and smiled sheepishly as a limited murmur of acknowledgement went up from those capable of giving it. Alexander was sitting on the floor, leaning back against the bed, his head flexed back so his throat was exposed. Caroline lay on the floor beside him with her face buried in his lap.

"Hello, dear boy," Alexander said, without looking up, waving a limp hand. "Help yourself to whatever you like."

Stephen's cheeks burned as he looked unconsciously at Beatrice. She did not see him, and he doubted she could see anything at all, her eyes barely open where she was slumped into a chair. "Your mother is home," he said.

"Oh, is she?" Florence said, catching his arm. "Has she gone straight to bed?"

"Yes," Stephen replied, watching as Beatrice stirred slightly and her eyes focused on his for a moment, before she turned her head away, the sight of her slender white neck imprinted on his vision as he blinked. "I think you're safe."

Florence exhaled, a relieved smile smoothing her face. Alexander looked up from the floor. "Flossie, you do make me laugh, your greatest fear is to be caught. Once the chance of that diminishes you're quite content to behave just like the rest of us."

"Well as long as we're careful and nothing untoward happens, Mama need not know." She shrugged, pulling her arm more tightly through Stephen's. "We're jolly glad you came, aren't we, Bea?"

"Oh, yes, of course," Beatrice replied, shutting her eyes and smiling. "_Jolly glad._"

A fug pervaded the room: smoke and bodies; yet Stephen could discern just one scent and he knew that to be Beatrice's perfume, the unmistakable floral notes of _Sous Le Vent_. A smell that spoke to him, and tugged at something in his core. Sometimes when he looked at her he could not speak, and when he blinked he saw her ahead of him, a dress of navy tulle, a sash undone and trailing behind like an uncurled extension of her body. If he could just grab it then he might be able to hold on. _If you lose then you must kiss Bea! _A jubilant Alexander, a wicked smile, and the terrible teasing that pushed Stephen into doing things he wouldn't dream of considering otherwise. Oh, but how he had wanted to kiss her, and it had not been difficult to pretend to lose courage on the bannister, as Alexander swept down on the opposite side. What he remembered most about the moment that followed was her smell, sweet and somehow hot, like the sheets of a freshly made bed on a summer's night; as she squeezed her eyes very tightly shut and puckered her lips.

"Sit with me, Stephen, darling." Beatrice stood shakily and caught hold of his arm, extricating him from Florence and giving him a little nudge onto the chair she had just risen from. He obeyed, sitting down and allowing her to slide onto his knee, one arm draped around his neck. Her fingertips hovered against the skin by his collar, and Stephen felt almost light headed at her proximity, the pressure of a longing starting in his chest as he tentatively let his hand slip around her waist. "I should like to go to sleep," Beatrice said, her voice far off. "Take me to bed." She pressed her face against the side of his head, twisting in his lap, so that if he turned his face to hers their lips would surely meet.

"I could help Florence take you to your room?" he suggested, feeling the sharp corner of her hipbone beneath his thumb.

"_You _take me. _Alone_," she slurred into his ear, the minute brush of her lips, like the underside of a petal.

_I can't trust myself alone with you. _

"Oh, hello there, Downton," Rex said, looming over them, seemingly unmoved by Beatrice's position in Stephen's lap. "Past your bedtime, isn't it?"

"Lets all go to bed," Beatrice said, grasping Stephen's hand with a laugh.

"I'm game if you are," Rex replied, grinning as Stephen blushed.

"I've changed my mind!" Beatrice said, as somebody managed to slide a record onto the Victrola, the needle jumping before the music crackled into life. "Dance with me!" She jumped up, her eyes suddenly bright as she tugged Stephen to his feet by both hands. "Dance with me like you did at Caroline's ball."

Over a year since that occasion and his heart still quickened at the thought of it; the sound of her laughter, so different from the way she laughed now, when they joked about Oliver's antics at Eton's Fourth of June celebrations. She was light and relaxed in his hold, her cheek moving closer to his as they glided around the dance floor beneath a trembling chandelier of crystal, to music very unlike what was currently playing. He could almost not bear to let her go, release her from a moment where she was so completely his. Beatrice was always the light of any room and people gravitated to her, a privileged few making it to her side. Once, during a particular tiring debutante party, she had turned to him and said: _I care for so few men. Only my father, my brothers, and you, of course. _To be selected by her was to be set apart, elevated and bathed in a diffused glow only her presence could provide.

"Oh, I _adore_ this!"

Stephen heard Glenn Miller and his orchestra, somewhere, pressing against the back of his head, but through the tips of his fingers he sensed every breath she made and the way she held her next exhalation, as she looked up to meet his eyes, as if she was going to fill him with a kiss. They weren't really dancing. Beatrice's eyes, though alert, were unfocused and her fingers had moved from pressing against his chest to clinging to his jacket.

"Oh, Stephen," she whispered, her forehead pressed against the notch where his collarbones met, beneath his stiff white tie. "Can we go?"

"Where?" he mumbled in reply.

"Back."

_Back to that night. _The tendrils of memory strove to cling more tightly around Stephen's mind, until they were running from the soles of his feet to his scalp, squeezing and proliferating, covering every surface with the feel of her body pressed to his, like the vines covering the wall she was leaning against at the bottom of a darkened Belgravia garden square. It smelt of burnt grass, and _Sous Le Vent_. His hands were pushing up her dress, and she was tugging open his shirt, a pearl button disappearing into the dark at their feet. He expected to be stopped, for her to stop him, for someone to call out, to stop himself. He expected it until there was only bare skin between them, until she was wrapping her leg around his waist. Then he realized he could not stop. Her arms crossed tightly behind his neck as she kissed the perspiration from his brow. Stephen felt as if they were being dragged into the wall, as if the circles of vine were straining to consume them, plunge them into a fairytale nightmare. He was ready to be consumed. He was ready to have each muscle ripped through his skin and into hers.

Beatrice pulled away, turning her face without looking at him. "Where's the champagne?" she demanded, of nobody in particular, in a voice loud enough to disturb even the most melancholic.

Stephen was left, feeling as if she was still touching his chest.

* * *

Mary woke with the sensation that she had not actually been asleep, and rolled onto one side to turn on the bedside lamp. The clock informed her there were still at least two hours until dawn and she groaned. The bed sheets lay tufted around her in frantic peaks; she tried to sleep in the middle of the bed but couldn't, subconsciously reverting to the right side. She looked down the bed now, and covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a scream, as the haze of sleep pinched away into a distant point, and Christopher came into focus, lying curled in a ball at the foot, partially covered with his Arthur Rackham quilt. Once the racing of her pulse subsided, Mary leant forward and pulled the quilt over his back, sighing as she did so at the glimpse of her youngest son's face in peaceful sleep, his lips slightly parted, the chip to his front tooth visible. He was a mama's boy. Her last boy, and she couldn't help but want to keep him hers as long as possible. If Richard were here - if it had been one of the older boys - he would have hoisted him up into his arms and swiftly deposited him back in his own bed. _If Richard were here. _She would not wake Christopher; being the youngest did have its advantages.

She watched his side rise and fall, the blond hair that was slightly too long, and she thought of that chubby toddler, the bracelets around his wrists as fat hands patted her cheeks. He was a lovely natured baby, they all were, perhaps all babies are in hindsight. A noise outside the door caused Mary to look up; it sounded like scuffling feet, and a resounding _thwack, _that could have been a shoe being flung at a wall, quickly followed. She slipped from the bed, glancing at Christopher, who remained deeply asleep, a trail of saliva on his chin. Mary opened the door, and looked straight into the guilty faces of Florence and Stephen, who were supporting a barefooted Beatrice between them.

"Bring her in here," she snapped, and both knew better than to object, practically dragging Beatrice over the threshold and casting around for inspiration before helping her onto the chaise lounge.

"Um, she's quite tired," Stephen offered.

"Is that what you call it?" Mary replied. "Thank you, Stephen. You had better go home."

"I'm sorry, Mama," Florence said, her hands twisting the material at the front of her dress, as Stephen ducked hastily from the room, pulling the door shut behind him.

Mary shook her head. "Help me put her in the dressing room. I don't want to disturb Christopher."

With some difficulty they managed to guide Beatrice into the room beyond and lie her on the bed, her eyes opening blearily only once. "Fetch a chamber pot from the bathroom, please." Mary instructed.

"Yes, Mama."

"Beatrice!" Mary said, tapping Beatrice's pale cheek with her hand. "I think it would be best if you were sick."

"There was quite a lot of wine and champagne going around," Florence cringed, placing the chamber pot gingerly on the floor by the bed.

"Yes, I can imagine."

"I did say maybe she should go to bed," Florence said. "I really am sorry, Mama!" Tears sprang to her eyes, but Mary ignored her, her back turned as she bent over Beatrice.

"Go to bed."

Mary waited until she heard Florence leave before straightening and moving to perch on the edge of the eiderdown beside Beatrice. She reached and pushed a strand of hair away from her daughter's forehead, letting her fingers rest on her cheek for a moment. Beatrice stirred. "Oh, Mama," she managed, her eyebrows creasing into a frown. "I think I might be sick."

Mary ran a cloth under the washbasin tap and dabbed Beatrice's forehead, wiping away the sheen of sweat as she vomited repeatedly into the chamber pot. Beatrice, who was the apple of her father's eye, dark unruly ringlets coming adrift from a scarlet bow, and a high squealing laugh that echoed down corridors. A little girl who loved with such unrestrained passion. Mary could still recall the weeping when the children's beloved kitten slunk into a meat safe, only to be found dead the next day between two joints of beef, the heartbroken wailing as Beatrice clung, first to her, and then to Richard when he returned from work. _Papa, Daphne has been murdered! _Mary closed her eyes and saw Richard lifting the sobbing child into his arms, where she wept angrily against his neck, her legs wrapping tightly around his waist to hold on like a monkey. Mary could hear his deep soothing voice, the way he had not tried to make light of it, not promised a new kitten, how he had allowed the child to mourn the dead pet with all the emotion Mary's own father would have so frowned upon.

Beatrice groaned, and fell back against the pillow, her face grey and translucent. _Thank God Richard is not here to see this. _"Try and drink something." Mary held out the glass of water, but Beatrice was unable to grip it and let her mother hold it to her lips as she shivered. "Shall I run you a bath?"

"No," Beatrice replied, her teeth chattering against the glass as she drew back. "No, thank you. I just want to go to sleep." She caught Mary's eye briefly but seemed unable, or disinclined, to hold her gaze. "You can go back to bed, Mama."

"Shall we save the apologies until the morning, Beatrice?"

"If you wish," she shrugged, passing the flannel over her face, pressing the cloth hard over her eyes for a moment, so her voice was muffled.

Mary's jaw clenched, and she struggled to remember that little girl who had liked nothing better than to sit beside her at the dressing table and try on her jewellery. Head to toe in the most expensive heirlooms money could buy, pirouetting in the centre of the room in her nightgown, arms outstretched to catch her mother's hand. "I expect you to apologise, do you understand?"

Beatrice straightened, her cheekbones stretched and bright in her pale face, as her lips set into a hard line before she retorted: "I understand, Mama. I understand _you _really quite well indeed."

"I am too tired for this, Beatrice."

"Well go to bed then. If you're lucky I'll have a seizure and die."

Mary winched almost imperceptibly, a twist in her stomach, as her daughter's expression did not flicker. "I love you," she replied, "even when you are impossible to like, and if I could have spared you pain I would have," she said, controlling the quaver in her voice.

Beatrice heard it, and she sneered, an unnatural smile. "What terrible lies."

"You don't believe I love you."

"Oh, I'm sure you do, in your way. It just isn't a way that means anything."

Mary shook her head slightly, narrowing her eyes to avoid the sting of tears. She looked away briefly, the red wallpaper blurring before her eyes. "You don't care for my forgiveness, and you expect to never grant me yours."

"So you do forgive me?" Beatrice challenged, and this time it was Mary who detected a tremble, a quiver on the taut wire.

"It doesn't matter if you cannot forgive yourself."

Beatrice blinked and Mary's chest constricted as she watched her daughter's face crumple, cracking and splintering so the pieces seemed to fall apart into the hands clenched in her lap. "I want Papa to forgive me!"

The words shot through her, and she reached to clasp Beatrice's hands, tight fists, resistant to being prised apart. "My darling, if I could give you that I would." She tried to pull away but Mary held fast. "He would have forgiven you anything, in time."

"He said I should have come to him, but how could I?" She began to sob, the kind of cries that start deep in some untapped hole inside ourselves, only to build and bubble, until they are forced from our mouths by something we cannot control. Each cry throbbed at Mary's temple, so that when she drew Beatrice into her arms it was almost to quell her own pain as much as her daughter's.


	6. Chapter 6

**6.**

**Capturing the Castle**

May, 1915

"Richard, please," Mary snapped. "You're taking the notion of safe driving to a new extreme."

"I don't know what you mean," Richard replied, keeping his eyes on the lane ahead. "Branson must be a reckless chauffeur, because I can assure you I am driving in the appropriate manner."

Mary raised her eyebrows under her hat, trying to catch his eye as he resolutely avoided her gaze. "Well, this journey is proving interminable. I can't think why you wanted to drive."

"The trains are hardly reliable at the moment. I imagined you wouldn't wish to be turned onto the track, in favour of a band of soldiers." He looked at her briefly to see her lips tense for a moment, before an imperious expression returned.

"That would hardly be a sacrifice in comparison to theirs."

"Ideologically, that is true. But I'm not sure you would be quite so magnanimous on a train platform in some godforsaken place miles from the border." He smiled, and watched her shoulders relax as she conceded the point.

"Very well, you win. There is nothing wrong with the motor, but I must say your driving style is something of a surprise."

"Oh? You were expecting more of a devil-may-care attitude?" His hands in their leather gloves flexed on the steering wheel, as he resisted the urge to push the impressive horse power of the engine to its limit.

"Yes, I think I was."

"I must be proving a disappointment," Richard replied, tilting his chin and giving Mary a sidelong look.

"I wouldn't say that," she smiled, and he reached to take her hand, squeezing her fingers through the glove. "Gracious, darling, you've taken a hand from the steering wheel," Mary teased.

"Will that do for the dangerous element of this journey?"

"That depends. Is this as reckless as you intend to be on this trip?" Mary replied, as he kissed her hand and let it go.

"I thought I'd shown you just how wanton I'm capable of being," Richard replied. "You must need reminding."

"Perhaps I do."

Richard felt his concentration slipping away, as he experienced an acute desire to pull over and look at her fully without needing to return his eyes to the road. He cleared his throat to speak but was interrupted by Mary. "On reflection, I think the result of your wanton behaviour is making me rather nauseous. Can we stop?"

She looked decidedly green, and Richard slowed to pull the Rolls Royce onto a muddy verge of turned earth beside a five-barred gate. He peered out the window at the gathering clouds, torn grey tissue strewn across a vaulted sky, as Mary hastily opened the door and stood outside the car with one hand over her mouth and the other pressed against the silver bodywork. Richard nudged open the driver's door and picked his way over the rutted earth to her side. "Can I get you something?"

"A bucket?" Mary mumbled, from behind her glove. Richard reached into his pocket to withdraw a silver hip flask, unscrewing the cap and holding it out to her. "I don't suppose that's water?" she asked.

"Whiskey." He shrugged.

She took it, taking a sip, and handing it back with a trembling hand, before removing her gloves and reaching into her coat pocket to withdraw a handkerchief and dab her lips.

"Better?" Richard asked, his eyebrows knitting, as he watched a tinge of colour return to her cheeks.

"Certainly no worse."

"There's a hamper on the back seat. Perhaps you should eat a sandwich?" Richard adjusted his trilby and opening the back door of the car to examine the contents of the picnic basket.

"What's in them?"

"Cheese and pickle?" he replied, taking the tea towel containing the sandwiches from the hamper, and opening it to examine them further.

Mary grimaced. "I think I won't."

"I will then," he said, tucking the package of sandwiches under his arm and removing his gloves, laying them carelessly on the soft roof of the car. "What?" Richard swallowed a mouthful of the sandwich in his hand and returned her frown, his lips twitching. "Am I not showing enough solidarity for your suffering?"

Mary pursed her lips. "I don't expect you to starve."

"Well, I don't want you to starve either," he said, putting the half eaten sandwich down beside the gloves, and slipping his hand around her waist. "You didn't eat breakfast."

"I'm afraid kedgeree was the very last thing I felt like eating this morning. At least I was able to not eat in the privacy of my room." She reached to smooth the lapels of his jacket as he pulled her against him.

"One of the privileges of being a married woman."

"Mm, one of many." Mary slipped her hands either side of the v in his waistcoat, her fingers pressing against his chest.

"Are you trying to prevent me from eating the rest of that sandwich?" he asked, relieved to see the grey tinge had faded from her face, although she was still paler than normal.

"I'm sorry if my being unwell is distracting you from your elevenses."

"You don't seem terribly unwell now," Richard murmured as she kissed his neck, her tongue stinging a patch of skin reddened by his morning shave.

"I think the least you can do is to continue to revive me."

"But not with a cheese and pickle sandwich?"

"No." He could feel her smooth lips, in the groove at the base of his throat, and he closed his eyes to savour the sensation.

"If I hadn't seen the colour drain from your face, I would think this a ruse to engineer an intermission in our journey," Richard said, moving his hands from where they rested in the small of her back, to undo the buttons of her coat. She drew back, removing her hat, as his hands slid inside the coat, almost spanning her waist, his rough fingers catching on the silk of her blouse as he sought to untuck it from her skirt. He sighed at meeting the restriction of her corset. "You wear too many clothes."

"Does that dampen your ardour?"

"Delays rather than dampens, I think." He pulled her to lean against him, and kissed her, his hands gripping her hips. "And I look forward to the day you're forced to stop wearing a corset."

"That shows how little you know about women's fashion, darling. There is a corset for every state," Mary said, her hand resting on his cheek, smoothing the angle of his cheekbone.

"How tiresome," Richard replied, as she linked her arms behind his neck, flicking her hat onto the car roof behind him. "I shall have to simply keep you out of it as much as possible." He let his fingers travel to the ribbons that met in the centre of her back, slowly pulling a lace through, so the arrangement unraveled under his hands.

"Richard," Mary said, in a tone of half hearted admonishment, her eyes shining as she looked into his. "We're standing by the side of a road."

"You're right," he said, ducking his head to plant a kiss on the tender skin between her jaw and ear. "Quite scandalous." Richard moved to one side to the open door and sank down onto the back seat, nudging the hamper away. He turned her around to guide her down into his lap, easing her coat from her shoulders.

"You need to see what you're doing?" she asked, slightly breathlessly, as he kissed a line down the side of her neck and over the notch in her shoulder, the blouse slipping away where she had unbuttoned it.

He felt thin fingers kneading his own shoulder, a papery hand he knew not to be there. A bony digit pressed down on the bone at the tip of his shoulder, like a point on a map. _This is where you lost your wings. _

Who said that? A crawling sensation rose and fell beneath his skin, sending a tingle from the back of his neck to the bottom of his spine, and his fingers stilled where they were constricted between the fabric and crossed laces. _They kept you warm when you were cold. _

Sour, tired breath on his cheek. A face out of sight behind him. The feel of a wet apron as she lent forward to pour cold water over his back. Pinpricks all over his skin, erupting over every bony prominence. _And now they are gone, you will always be cold. _

"Richard?" Mary asked, and he realized his forehead was bowed against the warm nape of her neck.

"Are you cold?"

"No," she replied. "Are you?"

"I wonder if I am." He was glad she was facing away from him as he loosened the pulled ribbons, and he spoke gruffly, hoping that she might not hear him. Richard's hands moved around to the front of the busk to unhook the clasps, but he fumbled, the sensation in his fingertips seeming chilled, like getting dressed in a silver light, a frost in shards of glass across the blanket.

"What do you mean?" she asked, after a pause, turning her head to look over her shoulder at him.

"Am I cold and calculating?" He could see her profile, and she frowned, taking his hands where they rested over her stomach.

"I think that's rather a strange sort of question to ask on your honeymoon," Mary said, her slender thumbs rubbing along the thin bones on the backs of his hands, like the hammers inside a piano.

"Yes, it is. I apologise." He pressed his lips to the curve of her shoulder.

"I'm not sure you're going to be able to lace me back into this corset in quite so tidy a manner as Anna."

The cold dispersed, and he stretched his hands beneath hers, his fingers regaining the strength to release the series of hooks. "Who said anything about lacing you back?"

Mary sighed, as he parted the halves of boned satin and pulled it away from her back, then unbuttoned the side of her skirt with practiced ease. He inhaled her perfume; it evaporated into his mind and dispelled the memories that threatened to impinge on this moment, seeking him out on a deserted country lane under an ominous sky, wisps of a past hardly remembered, barely thought of, vapourised into trembling minutiae, the smell of impending rain and fragrant unblemished skin overwhelming. He allowed himself to be overwhelmed, to forget, to allow it no further, a hand pushed away, so he could only feel Mary. Richard smoothed his hands over her bare hips under the chemise, and felt her tremble beneath his touch as he moved his palms to lie across her stomach. "Are we to hope this baby arrives rather late?"

"Clarkson said December, so I think asking for an extra eight weeks might be a little unrealistic."

"Do we confess?" Richard asked, his chin resting over her shoulder.

"I think that would be a terribly awkward conversation, and one I'd rather put off until absolutely necessary. I hope that the relief when we tell them that the baby hasn't, in fact, arrived too early at all, will offset the breach of propriety."

"Is that what you think your father would call it. A _breach of propriety_?" Richard smirked.

"I think he might call _you_ a few choice things, hopefully in private."

"I would say I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I'm not."

"It may work more in your favour if you refrain from saying that to my father," Mary replied.

"Is he going to take me out and shoot me?"

"Lets hope not."

Richard thought of Robert's face as he handed Mary over at the altar, their eyes meeting briefly. If the other man thought he could cow him, he was very much mistaken, and if a strained acceptance was the best he could hope for from Mary's family, then that is what he would take. He needed nothing from them, had needed no one for the largest portion of his life, and approval was a by-product, a bonus to whatever he achieved for himself. It did matter to Mary, though, and the more composed she was the more she was trying to pretend that it didn't.

"I plan to be a model son-in-law," he told her.

"And husband?" Mary asked.

"An ideal husband."

"Oh, I don't think I should like that," she recited, with a smirk.

"Well, as ideal as one can be in this world," Richard grinned, kissing her neck. "Shall we resume our journey? I'm not sure you want to see how carefully I drive once night falls."

"I don't think I do. And I want to see where we're going. You've hardly told me anything." Mary slid off his knee taking her blouse from where it lay behind her in his lap and slipping it back on over her chemise.

"A castle. What more do you need to know?" He pushed up from the seat, taking her coat to help her into it.

"Are you going to regale me with tales of William Wallace?" Mary asked, turning to him, her chin tilted.

"I will strike a bargain with you." He kissed her lips once, gently. "You leave the corset in the car, and I will keep the Scottish history lesson to the bare essentials."

* * *

"There's a conspiracy here," Richard said, throwing his hat onto the bed and passing a hand through his hair to smooth it. "Carson has been communing with that sinister housekeeper, in an attempt to force me to see the error of my ways." He raised his eyebrows at Mary, whose lips twitched with amusement as he approached her. "To persuade me that the proper place for a husband is in a separate room, unless a written invitation is received from one's wife." He took her hands in his.

"You don't need an invite." She smiled. "Written or otherwise."

"That is a relief. I thought I would have to remain in that adjoining room with the door firmly locked. She looked at me as if I intended to steal the crown jewels when I asked for the key."

"We won't tell her you've already had your wicked way with me."

Mary thought he looked a little tired; and she suspected his tense driving style had not come entirely naturally, a sigh of relief had escaped his lips as her own breath stalled at the sight of the castle rearing ahead of them. She had never been to a castle and Richard could hardly have chosen a more impressive one. A sheer cliff face fell away on three sides, a formidable imposing structure atop the crag, rock that looked as if it could wash away in layers at any moment, as if parts of it already had. The castle didn't teeter; it was as complete, as staunch as if it had risen fully formed from the womb of the cliff itself. Inside, unsurprisingly, it was cold and imposing, the servants who greeted them as chilled as the atmosphere that seeped from behind tapestries of red and gold. Overwhelmingly, it was grey, and the people in it were grey, and she and Richard seemed like a burst of foreign colour. The housekeeper, a Mrs Ludlock, had turned eyes like black pearls on Richard, and regarded him as if he were an apparition, a visitor from the future, a spectre to be looked through rather than at. Mary could hardly understand whatever she muttered beneath her breath. Richard had nodded and smiled, and afterwards admitted that he had no idea what she was saying either, but that it sounded like an incantation. Mary shuddered at the memory, dismissing the feeling they were entering a gothic ghost story.

"Do you think Mrs Ludlock is going to drag me out of this bedroom by my ear?"

"I need you here for warmth if nothing else," Mary said, glancing at the empty grate.

Richard kissed her hand. "I'll ring for someone to light it," he paused. "Unless you can think of another way to warm up?"

"A brisk walk?" She raised an eyebrow, her hand moving to his collar to loosen his tie.

"I'm going to take a brisk walk to the door and lock it," Richard said. "Or I shall not be able to shake the feeling that that woman might appear at the end of the bed at any moment."

Mary laughed. "What a ghastly thought!"

"With any luck she's in her sitting room clutching her rosary in time for the Angelus," he said, his back to her as he twisted the key in the lock.

"The Angelus?"

"It's six o'clock," he said, a small shrug of his shoulders, his palms open at his sides.

"Are you a Catholic?"

"Don't look quite so horrified, my dear," he replied. "I'm not an _anything_ now, but it is not always possible to forget what one recites as a child."

"Indeed," she replied, choice verses from a particularly pious governess fluttering in her mind briefly.

"Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum," he recited, and Mary thought those unfamiliar Latin words sounded very strange on his lips.

It was difficult to imagine Richard as a small child at his mother's knee, examining his conscience before bed, bended head and clasped hands. _Make my body pure, and my soul holy. _Edith had prayed the most fervently when they were in the nursery, through gritted teeth, forehead pressed against the bedframe so it left a red mark on her white skin. _What do you need to ask God so desperately for? _Mary had sneered, and her sister would not reply, turning away as if in possession of a particularly delicious secret. What was the secret? What inspired such comfort, Mary did not know. She knew that when she prayed it was out of desperation, a last resort and as such, meant nothing. As a group they attended church in the village, in the family pew in the front row, on show, a symbol of aristocratic piety. Her mother's expression was always the same, head inclined to one side, eyes narrowed, a benevolent smile on her lips, and even as a small child, Mary could never dismiss the idea that Mama was not listening.

"Will we be punished for our sins?" Mary asked wondering how much genuine anxiety existed in the question.

"Not on this mortal plane."

"Is there any other?" she asked, as he swept his arm around her back.

"I can't say I care to know." Richard replied, his fingers travelling to the pins in her hair. "I have no interest in the resurrection to eternal life."

"I think it's too late for my immortal soul."

"I'm inclined to agree," he whispered, dipping his head to kiss her neck as he released her hair in tendrils down her back.

"Why did you convert?"

"Hmm?" he mumbled, his hand slipping from her hair to undo her skirt.

"From Catholicism?"

"Can we have this theological discussion at some distant point in the future?" he asked, un-tucking her blouse. "Perhaps on my death bed?"

Mary relented. She didn't know why it mattered, or if it did matter at all. She stepped out of her skirt and they fell back onto the bed. The heavy embroidered counterpane was cold, starched and uncomfortable, so Richard tugged it away to reveal what seemed to be countless layers of velvet throws. The canopy above them was a deep navy blue, embroidered with gold stars, stitched constellations, which, for all Mary knew about astronomy, seemed to be in their correct positions. Above the carved headboard, a pattern of ivy whittled into the edge, there was a dark wooden cross, a silver figure of Christ, nailed. _Into Your hands I commit my spirit. _Richard's cool hands sliding against the silk of her blouse refocused her attention, and she caught his lips with hers, allowing her teeth to sink slightly into his skin so that she felt the rumble of a groan where her hand rested on his chest.

"This is what I wanted to do to you by the road," he said, divesting himself of his trousers and socks.

"Yet you showed remarkable restraint," she replied, threading her arms across the back of his neck, her leg wrapping round his waist where he lay beside her.

"I was being sensitive." He grinned, giving her hip a squeeze.

He _was_ sensitive. She supposed he needed to be, to collect the strands of truth and lies and weave them into something worth publishing, to transform them into black and white without slandering the subject, or misleading the public. He was careful, too; he was careful of her, and her feelings, in a way that was quite different to anything she had experienced before. She had never been an over sensitive child, possibly because by the time anyone threw insults at her she was old enough, and composed enough, to fling something better back, something that would stick, and not merely slide from an exterior polished, and clean. And, really, who had ever tried to deliberately hurt her feelings? Only Edith, and she was a conspicuously poor sparring partner, even when she held something with the fire to burn the house down around them, in her hands.

No, Mary was not used to verbal assaults; it was more insidious than that, a seeping coolness in the veins, a tingling across her forehead when it seemed that to marry well was all she could hope for, that to have Downton for herself was a dream that no-one believed possible, that they didn't believe in her, that she wasn't something more, someone worth fighting for, someone to provide with the ammunition so she could fight for herself. Wasn't that a misnomer? She wasn't Richard; she couldn't make something out of nothing, build an empire out of the dirt. He understood; it seemed he did, at least, and he was careful, careful never to completely denounce everything she had thought she should expect from life. He tolerated and humoured her family, even as they watched him stiffly, suspiciously, and he was generally good-humoured about thinly veiled barbs aimed in his direction. She wondered if they stuck, those things not said - humming between the lines - like they did to her, burrowing just under the surface of the skin as no verbal attack ever could. _You must pay no attention to the things I say. _It was the things she couldn't say, they were what mattered. Her father wouldn't pursue the inheritance for her because he could not win, but she felt that Richard would never admit as such, even if it was true, he would never let her think he would stop short of even the most hopeless battle.

All this from a man she had barely known six months. There was so much she still didn't know, even as she learnt every grip and feel of his body. His shirt removed, Mary ran her slender fingers down his side, over his ribs, tentatively across the scars she couldn't ask about. The skin from around his hip to the centre of his back was rutted and white, as if it had been squeezed and creased like fabric and then replaced so the seams didn't quite meet.

"It's a burn," Richard said, his eyes meeting hers.

Mary shook her head slightly, embarrassed, her hand flinching back from him. "I'm sorry…"

"I'm afraid it's an unpleasant story, not one I think you'd care to hear." He smoothed her cheek. "I keep my scars on the outside."

"You don't take things to heart?"

He silenced her with a kiss, the chill of the air in the room diminishing beneath the layers of blankets now pulled on top of them. Their lips parted slowly, his fingers entwined with hers. "Don't lets talk of hearts."

_They spoke as chords do from the string, And blood burnt round my heart._

He was not an impenetrable vessel. What did it mean to take something to heart? To remember a moment, something that wounded, then wrap it, fold it and press it into a corner of an organ meant for pumping blood. No, his heart was silent, but for the pounding where her hand rested over it now. The mind was made for love, for exploring and unraveling its complexities and details, for feeling the depths that it could provide, to burn in the blood and fire the senses. Richard's chest tightened, contracting between his ribs, his hand releasing hers, fingertips trailing in circles over her skin, from her collarbone, between her breasts, to her stomach. A week ago, in Mary's darkened bedroom, she had fallen asleep against his chest almost immediately, relieved and unburdened, but he had lain awake until a silver light infused the gaps in the curtains. He had never given much thought to the prospect of being a father before, except vaguely, when avoiding such dangers with the casual partners he had had over the years. Women, who now, he could not visualize, a rainbow of expensive gowns, a drunken grasping hand at the front of his shirt, all terribly insignificant, and shallow, even at the time. There was nothing shallow about his desire for Mary; it burrowed into his marrow.

He could be a father; he could learn how to do it, like everything else. It wound through his mind the night she had told him, as dawn approached, as he listened to her soft breathing, and he thought of his own father. His father bent over the work bench, his sinewy arm sweeping back and forth as he varnished the panel of wood, the glossy lid of a coffin. If he caught Richard looking, his narrow face creased and he mumbled something, indicating for him to return to work on his own task. An honest day's work, for the only result that mattered: food on the table. If there was food on the rickety bench in the corner of the room then the job was done, the duty was fulfilled, and that was what a father did. Well, that was easy enough, and it would not be something that -barring complete ruin - Richard would ever have to worry about. He had the freedom to be a different kind of father, one who listened, advised, played. Not that his father had never taught him anything, but it was conveyed in gasps, snatches between frantic bone crushing poverty, the occasional confusing chess game. Then when Richard learned how to play properly, his father was unable to grasp the new rules, this change in the game, he was overtaken and Richard left him behind.

_He that teaches himself has a fool for a master, _his father had muttered. _I didn't teach myself, _Richard had objected, and his father had shaken his head, _I wasn't talking about you, laddie. _There was intelligence there, in his father's pale eyes but it was dulled, tired by a relentless crushing earth under which nothing could flourish. Richard was an apt pupil, and he absorbed everything that anyone could teach him. Perhaps his father had taught him more than he knew, maybe those lessons would only be realized when he was a father himself.

Richard kissed his wife's smooth, upturned lips as he lowered himself carefully over her, her legs hooking around his hips and drawing him down on top of her, so that the muscles of his arms tensed in an effort to stay upright. "I'm not made of glass," she whispered into his mouth.

* * *

The maid cleared away the supper things, the silver platters jangling as she returned them to the trolley. The heat in the bedroom seemed to emanate from the stone, the flames humming in the fireplace and licking their dark shadows across the tapestries hanging on the walls. The maid, Rebecca, an uncommonly nervous creature, dipped and curtsied each time she accidentally caught Mary or Richard's eyes, and mumbled something about returning when summoned to ready Mary for bed.

"I don't think I can bear to ring for her again." Mary rolled her eyes from her seat across the small table, as the sound of the cart trundled away down the corridor. "Are we so very terrifying?"

Richard shrugged, stretching back in his own chair and reaching for his gold-plated cigar case on the side table beside him. "It's probably the fact I'm dining in my dressing gown, isn't it?"

"Probably," Mary said. "I don't think I did a terribly good job of re-pinning my hair, either."

"They're used to Lord Lohearn. I shouldn't imagine that maid knows anything about the latest hairstyles." He struck the match and lit the cigar, the flame sending a bright highlight across his high cheekbone.

"And where is he?"

"Oh, somewhere around the place, I should imagine." He blew out a ring of smoke, and laughed when Mary's eyes widened, glancing around her as if she expected the Earl to leap out from behind the bureau.

"No, in all seriousness, he's at Balmoral, overseeing the landscaping of the south gardens. He's an ancestor of William Chambers, did you know that?"

"No, I didn't," she turned her teacup around on the saucer, a chase of branches around the rim bearing delicately painted red apples. "How do you know him?"

"He was one of my first investors." Richard rested his ankle across his knee, puffing on the cigar. "I was lucky to cross his path."

"Or, he was lucky to cross yours?"

Richard inclined his head back to blow the wisps of smoke towards the vaulted ceiling. "Neither of us has done badly from the association."

"But he took a chance with you?"

"With a skinny upstart from the tenements? Yes, he did. He invited me here, pledged his funding and support, and offered to educate me in the machinations of high society," he paused, his lips twitching around the end of the cigar. "And, how best to manipulate money from those with a great deal of it."

"So, even you can't make something from nothing." Mary raised a challenge, and he smiled, his eyes shining.

"Not a business empire, no, that is not how the world works." He rested the cigar in the cut glass ashtray on the side table, and stood, adjusting his dressing gown belt and moving round the table to lean over and kiss her, his hand covering her cheek. "I'll need your help to make a dynasty."

"I think we're already fully invested in that enterprise," she replied, taking hold of one of his lapels and pulling him down for another kiss, the woody taste of his cigar on her tongue, as her hand threaded through the hair at the back of his head. "Shall we go back to bed?"

* * *

"Were you a very skinny child?" Mary asked, her head on Richard's warm chest, where she felt the rumble of a chuckle at her question.

"I haven't always been in possession of such an athletic physique, no," he replied, adjusting his position, one arm behind his head against the headboard. "As difficult to believe as that is."

Mary swatted his chest with a smirk. "Edith went through a terrible chubby stage. She was awfully self- conscious."

"I'm sure you were the model of sisterly understanding."

"I'm a little ashamed to say that I teased her mercilessly," she replied. She did feel a tingle of shame when she thought of Edith's downturned mouth and quivering bottom lip, as her own tongue issued a barbed jibe or retort. Ten years ago, Mary and Edith were having furious rows, flouncing down the gallery, firing bitter words and needling each other about the tiniest of minutiae. Mary found she could not imagine what Richard might have been doing at the same age. Was he at school, at work? Her husband hadn't materialized into the man he was now, there was something before, but that something seemed like a ghost, rather than an evolution. "Were you never cruel as a child?"

"All children are cruel."

"I suppose that's true. Especially to one's siblings, who you love without meaning to," she replied, lacing her fingers through his where they rested on her waist beneath the blankets.

"I'm afraid the sibling bond, or lack thereof, is a mystery to me."

"Papa once told me that our siblings teach us how to love, and to hate. How to forgive."

"Mine taught me about futility and loss," Richard replied.

"Oh, Richard." She twisted to look up at him, and he avoided her gaze for a moment, her fingers fanning apart on his chest.

"Life passes through, in places like that. You would not believe what it was like." His eyes flickered to hers, and they were dark, heavy.

"Tell me," she said.

"No."

"Why not?"

There was something in each line of his face, each sharp curve, a flitting shadow that cut and divided until she looked at him so hard he grew unfamiliar. "I don't like to contemplate how fragile life is, and how easily it can be taken away. It is hard to imagine here, but there, in one dark room, in one dirty leaking tenement, you can only lose."

"You didn't."

"Yes, I did," Richard replied. "Which is why I got out." His features softened, and he moved his other hand from behind his head to smooth her cheek.

"And how did you do that?" Mary pressed.

"With my fists first." He jerked his eyebrows, a spark returning to his eyes.

"Richard 'Knockout' Carlisle?" she smiled, pressing a finger to his lips.

He smiled back. "I'm not going to tell you what my nickname was."

Mary's eyebrows arched. "Are you telling me you fought enough to have a nickname?"

"Without a snappy nickname I'd have been laughed out of the ring."

This time Mary's eyes widened, despite herself. "The ring?"

"I will assume you have never attended a boxing match, but you do at least realise such things occur inside a ring between two competitors?"

"Well, yes…"

"I was knocked unconscious during a fight, so I decided to stop, but I missed the money, so a new venture had to be found. One that was less of a risk to my handsome features," he grinned, back on safe ground, almost. "I'm sure you don't want to imagine me sweating, bloodied and punching someone with my bare fists."

"No, I don't." Mary felt a tingle of warmth on her cheeks, and the corner of his mouth tweaked.

"Offending your delicate feminine sensibilities?" he teased. "Or inflaming them?"

Mary sat up slowly, turning to face him fully before moving to sit across his lap, taking his face between her hands. She smoothed her thumbs over the ridges beneath his eyes, her fingers in the tender angles of his jaw. She could feel his large hands pressing her hips, and she thought of them clenched and bleeding, raised and pressed against his cheekbones, fight or fall. The closest she had ever come to witnessing a fight was watching Cousin Patrick and an unfortunate school chum falling over each other, grappling uselessly at clothes and hair, after the latter had tried to kiss her. Shocked and then coolly amused, summed up her response at the time, and what she had enjoyed most, of course, was the open mouthed disbelief of her mother, who had found them and separated them inexpertly, the pearls around her wrist snapping and trembling down all over the floor like marbles. _Never watch two men fight over you, my dear, it isn't ladylike, _Mama had said, lips quivering as she glowered at the disheveled boys. Mary had agreed, such displays were highly undesirable, and unnecessary. Richard was different, his whole world had depended on drawing blood, perhaps it still did, and she let herself think of him, coiled and raw, as he tilted his head to kiss her neck.

"I think you are less easily offended than people might think," he murmured against her skin. "A storm of passion beneath that polished exterior."

"Do you think so?" Mary whispered, wrapping her arms behind his neck.

"I know so," he replied, catching her lips with his, so that the depth of his kiss swept through her, a current beneath the still surface. Because she wasn't still, not really, she was controlled, perfectly controlled, until now, with him, with someone who did not ask that she be perfect. She bit his bottom lip, the metallic taste of blood stinging her tongue as he lifted her in his lap, breaking their kiss momentarily, so that she almost thought the skin from his lip was still between her teeth as she gasped. Her knees pressed tightly against his hips, and she shivered, wondering how she could be so completely together, joined, to someone who was so different, who shot through her and set alight a release she had not known she could feel. She could allow herself to break a little, to let someone else through to occupy what was empty or untouched, for a brief intoxicating moment. Let this not be brief. She had not held onto Matthew, he slipped through her fingers all too easily. Richard held her as if he would never let go, and she returned his grip, crying out and pressing her lips to his forehead.

He buried his face against her chest, and she could feel the moisture from his brow against her skin, as she rolled her hips against his. She couldn't imagine what his life had been; of the way life had passed through, and left the dark behind. Here there was only light, the tendrils of fire dancing against the stone, and the bright blue of his eyes as he looked into hers, her name burning on his lips.

* * *

"Richard!"

His heart jerked in his chest and he pushed himself up, the vagaries of sleep clinging around him as he struggled to orientate himself in the dark room. Mary was sitting up beside him; he could make out the sheets gathered in her hands in front of her chest, the outline of her face.

"I heard something," she said.

"I hadn't taken you for the hysterical type," he mumbled, propping himself up on his elbow. "The ghost of Mary Queen of Scots, was it?"

"Very funny," she replied, as he smothered a yawn.

"What was it?"

"I don't know. Scrabbling."

"My dear, you've spent your life in an grand country house. Surely you're used to odd noises. Now, really, I must go back to sleep."

"Aren't you going to investigate?"

"No."

"Richard!" she hissed.

"Oh, really, Mary, if you're that disturbed, _investigate_ yourself."

He couldn't see but he could imagine the expression that accompanied her words: "Very well, I shall." She threw back the sheets so they landed over his face, and when he pushed them back he could make out her picking up her dressing gown and walking round the end of the bed.

Richard rubbed a hand over his eyes as she hesitated by the door, and with a theatrical groan, he called out: "Wait, let me. On the off chance that it's Jack the Ripper and not a rat." He plucked his dressing gown from the floor and tugged it on.

"I was wondering how long it would be before chivalry won out."

"And if it hadn't?" he asked, fumbling around on the bedside table for a box of matches to light the candle.

"Well, I would have looked myself." She gave a slight shrug as he struck the match and a burst of light shone across the lower half of his face.

"I think you just enjoy waking me up." He picked up the candle, and walked towards her. "If it's Mrs Ludlock I will be the one who screams."

"She is rather sinister, isn't she?" Mary swallowed, pulling her dressing gown more tightly around her, as he turned the key in the lock and opened the door into the black depths of the empty corridor. Richard held up the candle and swept an arc of light in front of them. It bounced from the rough stone and slightly threadbare carpet that ran down the centre of the corridor, and illuminated nothing untoward, so that he looked back at her with a satisfied smile, making to push the door shut again.

"I'd hardly call that a satisfactory investigation." One eyebrow raised, her arms crossed, she looked remarkably beautiful, a white outline.

Richard straightened. "Are you going to furnish me with a weapon to take on my quest?"

"I'd have thought your fists would do."

"There's nothing there. I think you just want to roam the corridors after lights out." He extended his hand to her. "Or are you afraid?"

"Richard, I'm in my nightgown."

"Of course you are. We can pretend we're part of a gothic novel. Have you read _The Turn of the Screw_?"

Mary raised her eyebrows. "Yes. Not the best parallel you have ever drawn, darling. Are you the ghost of a malevolent valet?"

He stepped over the threshold, his arm still out to her so that she took it with an amused sigh. "You like them with the spirit to be naughty?" he quoted.

"I think you've already corrupted me."

Richard enclosed her hand in his, pulling the door shut behind them, so they were contained in the candle's glow. "Let's see if I can remember my way around this place."

"You've done a lot of late-night corridor prowling, have you?" she asked, her fingers linked through his.

He turned to smile at her, and his palm tingled where it met hers. "I'll never prowl a corridor without you again."

They walked down the corridor and despite herself Mary gripped his hand tighter, an unseen draft fluttering through the light fabric of her dressing gown. The shadows bulged from the stone walls, an undulating flicker, each turn illuminated barely in time. Sometimes, as children, she and Edith had slipped out of the nursery at night, pushing and testing each other to see how easily they would turn tail and run back at the slightest sound. Mary always held out longest, in the velvet darkness, standing facing the wall in the blind ended corridor near the bachelor's rooms, counting in a whisper under her breath before chasing back after her sister, her nightgown catching on her feet. _You are afraid, and I am not._ Edith's eyes, bright and wide, as she sat cross-legged on the bed beside Mary's, her hands pressed to her lips. Mary's back would straighten, as she tossed her long dark hair over her shoulders, the conquering hero. The dark never frightened her, not like it did Edith, so really it wasn't such a victory.

"I think this is Mrs Ludlock's lair," Richard whispered, his lips brushing her ear. They turned into a narrow corridor, not wide enough to walk down two abreast. The door at the end was shut, a wooden crucifix nailed there.

"This corridor is like a tunnel," Mary replied.

"Perhaps it was," he said, holding up the candle to look behind them. "I think there was something in front of this entrance, or it was bricked in."

"Why?"

"For a secret mass?"

He reached past her, his forearm brushing her waist as he turned the handle and gave the wooden slatted door a push. "Richard, I don't think we should," she said, remaining in the entrance to what appeared to be a darkened cupboard. His hand dropped from the door and he guided her to one side, slipping through the gap first, the candle aloft in front of him. "A chapel," Mary breathed.

"Yes. A chapel." Richard sat down on one of the wooden benches, placing the candlestick holder down beside him and facing the small lectern. No more than ten people could possibly fit in the room, and Mary shivered to imagine the various members of the household pressed together, shoulder to shoulder, receiving a covert mass from a hounded priest. She sat down beside him, her hands clasped in her lap.

"It must have been rather frightening."

"What must?" he said, his gaze on the faded red curtain behind the lectern, just visible on the edge of the candle's glow.

"Being in here, the door closed, knowing what would happen if you were discovered."

"Yes, that must have been frightening."

"Richard?" She frowned, placing her hand over his. "What is it?"

"My father recited the Angelus, three times a day, every day, wherever he was." He didn't look at her. "Pray for us sinners." He paused, his eyes narrowing, as if trying to recall long forgotten words.

"Can we visit your father?" she asked.

"No, we can't."

"You haven't told me anything about him."

"Because I can't go back there." He took a deep breath, his fingers clenching beneath hers. "And he won't leave."

"Could we meet him somewhere else? Nearby? I assumed he couldn't travel." Mary pressed.

"I am not going to take you there, and I'd rather not discuss it any further."

The air thickened between them, and Mary reached to take his hand. He did not respond, his back straight, his shoulders still, and his face displaying nothing that she could even begin to discern. He seemed to move away, in the tiny dark room, walls slanting in towards them, the prayers of the hunted summoned to her mind. He had brought her here because it showed something of his past, the first step, the home of a benevolent mentor, but it was not the true beginning; it was not the raw unformed start of what had made him who he was. She wanted to see, to know, to try to understand, and she supposed, in a small uncertain way, she wanted to be shocked, to see a world so far from her own, to be able to stand by Richard with this knowledge in front of her family. A family who knew nothing, who saw nothing of the depths some people forced themselves from, the shackles broken, the mountains climbed. They sneered at the idea of a _social climber _and perhaps what they imagined was the plodding, sycophantic progress of a boy from a middle class drawing room to an office in the city, bowing and scraping to the titled and the great. That was not Richard, and she thought of him, fists raised once more, someone else's blood on his lips, and she wondered quite to what lengths he had gone to secure his rise.


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Thank you so much to those reading and reviewing and extra special thanks to my beta mrstater, who is my wonderfully patient teacher and ever enthusiastic cheer leader _

**7.**

**Long Before I Tire**

Beatrice rolled onto her back and opened her eyes to look up at the ceiling. A wave of pain started at her feet and swept through her, building into a drumming between her eyes, and she squinted, relieved the room was dark. She turned her head slightly to examine the time on the bedside clock, and it took her several minutes to work out that it was past ten o'clock. She could hear nothing, bar the drumming of her own pulse in her ears.

She groaned; the effort of reaching to pull the bell seemed like it would surely elicit a crashing spasm of nausea. Someone would come check on her soon - _preferably not her mother_. She needed to be rallied by good-humoured brotherly teasing. When Beatrice looked down she realized Christopher's quilt was draped across her; she'd probably been sick on the sheets in the night, but she couldn't remember. She cringed to think of Christopher coming in and giving her his quilt, it smelt of him and she pressed it to her nose, running her fingers along the slightly frayed edge as she knew he liked to do. Christopher, the baby, who didn't need to grow up just yet. How innocent could he remain when he had to watch her antics? Perhaps it would put him off drink, and if he knew about the drugs, maybe it would cause him to abstain from those too. She hoped so; _he can be better than we are_.

Beatrice remembered waking, that other September morning, her limbs hotly entangled with those of Florence and Oliver, her sister's hair covering her face where she was curled against her, Oliver taking up nearly all of the space on the white wrought iron bed, stretched out, with his arms behind his head and his foot in her ribs.

She could hear rain, the comforting wash of it against the window, and sitting on the window seat, facing them, with his arms crossed she could see Alexander. Beatrice could picture his expression now, patiently waiting for her eyes to adjust and for her to acknowledge him. _I've been willing you awake for hours. _She sat up slowly and rubbed her face with her fists. _Come on_. Alexander took her hand and she carefully untwined herself from the little ones, who didn't stir. She didn't think about it at the time, but later realized that long after she had given up and gone to sleep that night, her ten-year-old brother had sat up, watching his younger siblings and waiting in the dark with only his thoughts and fears for company. They padded down the corridor, Beatrice tripping a little on the hem of her nightgown, a ball of excitement building in her stomach. When they reached their parents' room Alexander knocked tentatively and squeezed her hand a little tighter.

Beatrice fell in love with her littlest brother as soon as she saw him. _I've already held him, _Alexander had added as an aside, but she didn't care, her bottom lip trembling as Papa made sure she was comfortable on the chair before putting Christopher in her arms. She did remember holding Oliver four years previously, but he had been small and everyone was anxious, and he had seemed like a doll she was likely to break as the nurse swept him away quickly. Christopher was everything a baby should be, pursed rosy lips, flushed cheeks and a quiff of downy golden hair on his perfectly shaped head. A delicate unblemished little face, and she bent her own so that her forehead brushed his smooth one. He had never really lost that magical grip on her heart. Christopher made her better, and when he opened shortsighted newborn eyes on her that day, she hoped he would never see her be bad.

Christopher didn't know, neither did Alexander or Oliver; she supposed that, at least, she had kept the full depth of her fall from them. The brothers who would love her in spite of what she had done. It wasn't that; it was the shame that she feared, and Alexander's anger. If he knew the full story, especially in the absence of their father, Beatrice could not begin to imagine how he would react. He could never know. She could not bear to see Papa's anguish played out again through her brother. No, she would live with the knowledge that she had been changed forever in Papa's eyes, and that it was too late, that at the last moment everything had been broken.

"Bea?" Florence said, poking her head round the door. "Oh, good, you're awake. Jane's bringing you some tea and toast."

"I can't eat."

"Well, you can try, at least," Florence said, slipping into the room and perching on the end of the bed.

"Fine," Beatrice covered her eyes with her forearm for a moment and attempted to sit up a little in the bed. "Has everyone gone?"

"They haven't all surfaced yet. Mama has gone to Ripon with Christopher, so they should have left by the time she gets back."

"Good." Beatrice took a shaky breath and decided against sitting any more upright than she already was, as the room span dizzily around her.

"Are you all right?"

"I will be." She passed a hand through her hair, motioning for Florence to hand her the glass of water from the bedside table.

"I wish you wouldn't invite Rex. After everything."

"What do you mean after everything?" Beatrice took a sip of water. "None of it had anything to do with Rex."

"But, Papa…"

"He made up his own mind, and I can't say I much cared if Rex got punched at that point," she replied, refusing to meet her sister's eyes. "But, he was a bystander, I told you, and I told Papa, he just didn't listen."

"Does Mama know?"

"No. She expended enough energy blaming me. Why does it matter who the other party was?" she demanded, her jaw clenching as Florence's wide brown eyes caught hers. "Anyway, now it's as if it never happened."

"I don't think that's true," Florence said, her finger smoothing over one of the fairies on the edge of Christopher's quilt. "Not for me. I can't forget."

"I'm sorry you've been so traumatised," Beatrice said, but her tone was bitter, cold.

Florence's cheeks flushed. "I know it must have been awful for you, Bea, I know! But, I thought you might die! I had to give that cab driver my earrings so he'd take us to the hospital. It _was_ traumatic! All that blood…" She covered her eyes with her hands.

Beatrice let the nausea rise and fall, the pushing of all she suppressed sending impulses to the surface of her mind, cutting through her stomach, slicing past her ribs. It gathered in a knot at the base of her throat and stifled her next breath.

"Perhaps you should have left me to die."

* * *

"They're gone then, Rex and the others?" Stephen asked, running his fingers along the bonnet of the silver Bugatti.

"Mm." Alexander kept his back turned, peering into the interior of the Rolls-Royce Ghost, before standing up and casting his eyes around the garage. The eight cars impeccably cared for and carefully stowed, not a mote of dust in sight; he didn't suppose they'd be able to run more than one before long. Stephen moved to admire the white Isotta, his hand resting on the long hood as he bent his head to admire the Italian coachwork.

"I love the Bugatti, and the Ghost," Stephen said, with a smile and a shake of his head. "But I think the Hispano is my favourite." He walked over to the car, his fingers trailing over the silver stork ornament resplendent on the end of the long hood.

"How subversive of you," Alexander replied. "You don't like the Boulogne?"

"Of course I like it. I could never drive it, though."

"My father knew Andre Dubonnet, you know," Alexander said, his hands in his pockets as he looked along the sleek shape of the sports car, the dim light of the garage doing nothing to diminish the glaring shine of the highly varnished pink-yellow tulipwood. "This car has raced at Brooklands."

"It's been requisitioned now hasn't it, Brooklands? No more motor racing. I imagine it will be an airfield."

"Yes," Alexander replied, and he was a little boy once more, clinging to Papa's hand, the roaring sound of the engines in his ears as the cars sped round the track.

"Last night, there was a moment when I thought you were about to agree to let Rex take the Ghost for a spin," Stephen said.

"God, I'd need a lobotomy if I started agreeing to things like that. Rex is more of an imbecile that I thought if he even expected for a moment that I would let him take my father's car out."

Alexander avoided the car. The chauffeurs drove it, kept it in well-oiled and prime condition, but he had not sat behind the wheel since Richard's death.

"Which is your favourite?" Stephen's voice drifted into his hearing.

Alexander shook himself, his hands clenching in his pockets. "Oh, I don't know. The Bugatti was my first car."

"My father bought me a bike," Stephen said with a shrug. "I don't suppose I'll have a car until after the war now." He paused, leaning against a workbench and examining the cuff of his jacket. "Beatrice told me you're signing up."

"Yes. Today," Alexander replied, wiping a smudge from the Ghost's buffed headlamp. "There's a joint recruitment centre in York."

"I'll come with you," Stephen said, looking away to the spare tyres hanging on the wall. "Jump before we're pushed?"

"There's no _we_ about it, Stephen. This is something I have to do, you can come or not, it makes no odds to me."

"I quite fancy the RAF," he replied. "Papa will want me to be in his old regiment, though, of course."

"Have you discussed it with him?"

"Not really. I think it's difficult for them, our parents, I mean. They've been through it all before."

Alexander crossed the garage and reached behind Stephen to take a cloth from the shelf. "Dulce et decorum est, Pro patria mori."

"The old lie," Stephen said, watching as Alexander began to polish the stork on the Hispano's hood, rubbing in short smooth motions, his brow knitted. He tossed the cloth back towards the shelf so that Stephen had to dodge to avoid it.

"So many lies."

"What does that mean?" Stephen replied, his throat burning, so that he coughed, waving his hand at an imaginary flurry of dust.

"Nothing." Alexander smiled. "I enjoy being cryptic."

"You enjoy making people feel uneasy."

"Perhaps I like to tease guilty consciences." He watched the younger man, little more than a boy, the pale tinge around his cheeks, the way his Adam's apple rolled in his throat when he swallowed, his blue eyes flickering away from him. "Goodness, it almost looks like you have a dark secret, Stephen. I wasn't talking about your conscience. I'm sure it's as clean as the driven snow."

* * *

"What's going to happen about school, Mama?" Christopher asked, crumbling the last piece of cake under his fork. "Everyone has left London."

"Professor Barston has approached me about using Haxby," Mary replied, watching as the waitress replaced the silver teapot with a fresh one.

"Pardon?" Christopher replied, his eyes widening, the fork stilling in his hand.

Mary raised her eyebrows and pressed her lips together for a moment, regarding her youngest son. "Darling, did you think the war was going to provide you with a reason not to attend school?"

"No." He flushed, looking down at his plate. "So, the other boys would board? With us?"

"I think there's more than enough space, and I'm afraid I'd rather have a school than a hospital in my home." She paused, watching Christopher's brow furrow. "I thought you'd be pleased. There aren't any satisfactory prep schools nearby; you'd have to board somewhere, make new friends. This way there will be no need for that."

"Yes, I see."

"Christopher, what is it? I shall put away all your baby photographs, if that's what you're worried about." Mary smiled as she filled his teacup, but he didn't look up to meet her eyes and his cheeks remained red. "Am I terribly embarrassing?" she pressed, hoping to elicit a twitch of his lips at least, but they remained in a hard firm line as if he were trying not to cry.

"No," he mumbled, his shoulders hunched. "You're the most beautiful of all the mothers."

Mary smoothed his fringe away from his face with her hand. "Oh, darling, how sweet you are."

"It's just… it's private isn't it, one's home. And all the memories, and things," he said, haltingly, chewing his bottom lip as she let her hand drop.

"Christopher, look at me," Mary said, extending her hand, palm up, as he looked to meet her eyes. She took the boy's hand when he withdrew it from beneath the tablecloth and pressed his fingers. "Things must change."

"It feels like everything is over," Christopher replied, and his lip trembled.

Mary's own mouth twitched, a cord tugging in her stomach, a door swinging open, and she swallowed before forcing a smile. "Well it isn't. But many things have altered, and it has been very difficult…But we will forge ahead, won't we?"

"Without Alex?"

She shut her eyes, shaking her head briefly as if to dismiss the thought. "Of course not. He'll come home on leave, he'll write…"

"And what if he dies?" Christopher gulped, and this time a tear started in the corner of his eye, so he wiped it hastily away with the hand that wasn't in hers.

Mary's jaw hardened, and she squeezed his hand. "Don't. Don't say that again, do you understand? Just don't." The jangle of cutlery and china surged anew and she withdrew her hand, composing herself and attempting to lighten the tone of her voice. "Now, would you like another slice of cake? A scone?"

Christopher shook his head, blinking away the remaining tears and turning his teacup around on the saucer by its handle. He still needed her, so very much, and in that moment Mary felt she had let him down, said the wrong thing, or left something that needed saying, unsaid. It _would_ be different, another huge change in less than a year. Florence would remain at Cambridge; there was no question of Oliver coming back from America now, Alex would be gone - not _gone_ – _away, _and as for Beatrice, Mary didn't know what her plans were from one day to the next. She had lost grip on all her children, except for Christopher, whose hand remained in hers, who had always been so resistant to separation of any kind.

As a gentle, cherished eight year old, he had bravely accepted that he would accompany Oliver to prep school that Autumn, setting his mouth in that familiar stoical way, but as the weeks passed he seemed to retreat, when before he had always been so keen to be swept along into the long, exhausting summer holidays in Yorkshire. She worried, discussed it with Richard, who reminded her that both Alexander and Oliver had been nervous before they left for school, and neither had had the advantage of an older brother to keep an eye on them for the first year. Yet Christopher had grown paler, more withdrawn, until even his siblings relented from teasing him. Mary felt the dizzying surge of nausea she associated so strongly with that summer, return, for a brief moment, in the crowded Ripon tearoom, and felt an overwhelming relief when she looked at Christopher as he was now.

Alexander had carried Christopher back from the lake, where they had been picnicking, and as he came through the door that led directly into the long drawing room from the terrace, Mary thought for a moment that her youngest son had been drowned. His skin was an almost translucent white, fine blue and green veins that she had never seen before standing out around his forehead. He looked as if he were made of wax; he looked dead. _Dead. _She acted quickly, smoothly, but Mary remembered feeling as if she hadn't moved at all, as if someone very like her were bending over Christopher and instructing Alexander to drive and fetch the doctor. The memory prickled against her scalp, and she dismissed the sensations it provoked, recalling only the facts. Christopher had not gone to school that September. He had stayed at home, and Richard had summoned every specialist possible, he had paid for two American Professors to fly over – demanded every opinion money could possibly buy. He thundered and raged, until someone told him what he wanted to hear.

The general consensus had been that Christopher had leukaemia, and even now Mary could not say the word, or even think it, without experiencing the edge of a plummeting despair that could never be re-lived. The second American had disagreed, a lone voice, but the only one Richard was inclined to hear, and whom Mary only believed when the months passed and Christopher did not die. They would never know what it was, a virus, perhaps, the Professor surmised in his flippant way – _he wouldn't be getting better otherwise. _Christopher's bright blue eyes fixed hers now, and Mary wondered how she could ever release his hand, when she had so nearly let him go too soon.

* * *

"Alexander Richard Carlisle?" the commissionaire asked, looking down at the list in his hand. "Lord Marchmont."

Alexander rose and nodded, adjusting his tie and glancing briefly back at Stephen who gave him an encouraging smile, his own nerves evident. The ten other young men ceased the non-stop chatter they seemed to have felt necessary, in order to stare as Alexander strode down the corridor after the commissionaire. He flexed his fingers, pushing the signet ring straight on his little finger. A brief knock heralded the opening of the door into a room containing a long table with three uniformed men sitting on one side.

"Good afternoon. Your name?" the man sitting in the centre asked, his eyes narrowing whilst his gaze travelled the length of Alexander's frame.

"Good afternoon. Marchmont, sir."

"Do sit down." He gestured to the seat, his eyes never leaving Alexander's as he launched into the next question immediately. "Why do you want to join the RAF?"

"To serve King and Country," Alexander replied. "To defeat our enemies in the air."

"Very good." His thin lips quirked into an almost-smile, and Alexander thought, briefly, that this trite and rehearsed reply was not what they wished to hear, but then what else could he say? A secret desire to plunge from the sky in a ball of flames? "And where were you at school?"

"Eton and Oxford, sir."

"Mm. Have you flown before?"

"Only as a passenger."

"And you enjoyed it?"

"Yes," Alexander lied.

"Sporting, are you?" the man to the right asked. "Do you shoot, ride and hunt?"

"Yes, sir."

"Read the papers? Which ones?"

"My own," Alexander replied, before he could stop himself.

The three men exchanged looks. "Ah, yes. I see. _Lord_ Marchmont. Well, well. Can Fleet Street spare you?"

"The presses won't stop because I'm not there."

"No, indeed." He lowered his eyes to the paperwork and made an indiscernible note in the margin. "But your name will do you no favours here."

"I ask for no favours."

"It might have kept you out of this for a while, though. So why volunteer now? An eye to a hero's legacy?"

Alexander eyed the older man, perhaps a veteran of the Great War, and he relaxed. Let him be tested, let this man think he wished to be a hero, the further away it was from the truth the better, and the easier it was to play the part.

"I don't care to be a hero."

"Quite right," the man, who had been silent until that point, said, nodding at Alexander. "We need superior men: well educated, intelligent, better than brave. Are you better than brave?"

"Yes, I think I am, sir."

He had convinced them, and the answers to diverse questions tripped from his tongue, the tan of an angle, can you define the Navy's presence in the Far East? What is a conjugate diameter? After prompting he told them of his experiences as a rugby fly half, a tactical position they seemed to find meaningful in relation to being a pilot. He supposed it was, being the first to receive the ball from the scrum, making a split second decision, being largely responsible for orchestrating a game plan. He couldn't remember what it was like to have such minor responsibilities, relied on for a game that hardly mattered once it was over. In Fleet Street he commanded and controlled, he slid into the role, into his father's shoes, but it was not comfortable, and he could not pretend it was, and the more difficult it was the further he pushed. This would be the same. As Alexander handed the blue slip of paper over to the commissionaire he found that his mouth had become inordinately dry, and the sensation that he had signed his life away seemed to encroach on his thoughts, so that he hardly heard the smiling commissionaire when he spoke. "Well done, milord."

"Pardon?"

"You passed the interview," Stephen said, standing up and clapping Alexander on the back. "The blue chit, it means you passed. I knew you would, of course."

Alexander allowed Stephen to drive them home in the Bugatti, a seemingly expansive gesture, however the truth was that he could not concentrate. It would be a brief lapse. He could take hold of himself again quickly, tweak the strings and pull up his resolve. He had said he enjoyed flying. He had signed up to the RAF because he couldn't think of a satisfactory excuse to give Stephen as to why the most coveted and glamorous of the services, was not for him.

Since 1927 Alexander had made three trips by air, to Paris, Milan and Amsterdam. All of which were an exercise in endurance, and during each journey he had convinced himself that he would die, whilst pretending that he was enjoying the buffet lunch that came as part of the _Silver Wing_ service. The taste of salmon, crème fraiche and fennel rillettes revisited him now, as did the ache in his jaw and ears from the noise and pressure, as he tried to chew the smallest amount possible. It had taken a great deal of self-discipline in the years that followed, to eliminate the gag reflex accompanying those particular flavours. During the first trip he had been sick, discreetly, into a bag he tugged from the mesh on the back of the seat in front. After that, Alexander cultivated an overall demeanour consistent with air sickness in order to avoid the ubiquitous meal, beginning to look pale early in the flight, and convincing himself and those around him that the nausea was solely connected to the sometimes abrupt drops in altitude. Perhaps it was.

"That medical was a bit thorough, wasn't it?" Stephen said.

"Oh. Yes, I suppose it was."

"I thought he was going to tell me I had a heart murmur, or something of that sort."

_If only it was that easy, _Alexander thought.

"I've never flown. Mama…" Stephen started, his hands tightening on the steering wheel, as he seemed to reconsider his train of thought. "What's it like?"

"Loud."

Stephen rolled his eyes. "What a vivid picture you paint, Alex."

Alexander raised an eyebrow at this display of quick wit. "I don't imagine being a passenger in an Argosy is much akin to piloting a single-seater fighter plane."

"Oh gosh," Stephen said, suddenly. "I don't want to tell my mother."

"I'm not telling her for you."

"Shall we swap? I'll tell your mama and you can tell mine."

"I'm quite sure your parents will think it was my idea anyway."

"Well, I'll tell them it wasn't. I have my own mind," Stephen replied, easing the car down the narrow country road. "And it's about time they realized that."

* * *

The evening lengthened outside the bedroom window, and Mary stood watching the sky deepen and fall into almost darkness in the time it took to blink. _All the world is grey_. She tugged the newly installed blackout curtain across the window and wondered why she bothered, when it seemed that the sight of the enemy was already trained at her home, her family. She closed her eyes and the feeling burnt below her sternum, it's tendrils spreading into her chest. _Children ardent for some desperate glory. _He was not a child, and yet behind the red pulse of her eyelids she saw that little boy, and in his face she recalled how much he had hated flying. Alexander said nothing when they got home, his expression barely changing as Richard exhorted the thrill of air travel, and Mary only asked if he'd enjoyed himself. She allowed him to nod, and she pretended not to notice the light on beneath his bedroom door for several late nights afterwards. He was eleven-years-old and he would not tell her he was frightened, as he would never tell her now.

She _could_ go to his room; she wouldn't, because she knew what she would find. He would be afraid, terribly, desperately afraid, and the pain beneath her ribs intensified as her brow creased. _Alexander_. Every selfish urge demanded she go to him, even as she knew the only restless mind it would momentarily still would be her own. Richard would have allowed him no privacy, forcing and pressing until Alexander revealed something, anything, of his true feelings. She could not do that. He thought he was protecting her, by being brave, by revealing nothing, and if she took that from him how would he control his fear?

Beatrice had closeted herself away in her bedroom, and Florence had spent the evening letting Christopher win at billiards. The air stagnated over them all, and nothing was said. Mary jumped, her eyes snapping open as she turned around and the door opened hesitantly.

"Mama?"

"Alex." She swallowed, her hands tense at her sides as he stepped into the room and shut the door behind him.

He sat on the upholstered ottoman at the end of the bed, his forearms resting on his knees and his eyes focused on the carpet. After a moments consideration Mary sat down next to him, smoothing her nightgown over her knees and reaching to clasp his hand, impulsively and firmly. He did not pull away, and she pressed her fingers into his palm, her thumb resting on a rough knuckle. They sat in silence for several minutes. Alexander gave her hand a squeeze, dipping his head and kissing her fingers briefly before withdrawing from her grasp and covering his eyes with his hands, the fingertips pressing in the dip below his fair eyebrows. Mary reached to smooth the hair at the back of his head, gold strands that curled slightly at the nape, and she thought of how she had loved him so much, so quickly, in a way she never thought possible.

"Make sure you are always hurrying home."

She rested her hand between his shoulder blades as he flinched beneath his jacket, his face still covered. As a child Alexander had hated saying 'goodbye' and it had been Richard who, tweaking his cheek at the door to the school dormitory, had said, _very well, we'll say 'hurry home'. _Every day was a day closer to coming home from school; home was the key, the aim; the reward at the end. Now, school had been exchanged for war, Alexander was not a boy, and Richard would never come home.


	8. Chapter 8

****_If you're reading, thank you! And please accept my apologies for the delay, real life stinks sometimes, right?! Any feedback greatly appreciated. I hope you enjoy._

**8.**

**Turn Thine Eyes**

May, 1915

Mary found herself regretting the impulsivity which had led her to being driven by Lord Lohearn's chauffeur down a claustrophobic street in a city she had never visited before. She began to wonder what on earth had possessed her, the envelope with the address on it crinkling in her gloved hand.

A telegram had arrived at the castle that morning with the news that a German U-boat had torpedoed the _Lusitania, _and Richard had been insufferable, bellowing into the telephone in the study, until he'd decided he could return to London in time to oversee the coverage in the morning edition. He assured her he would be back within forty-eight hours, but Mary could not escape the feeling that their honeymoon was over.

After their late night exploration they had slept past breakfast, and Richard had been scathing of the tray Rebecca brought them, slamming the lid back down over the plate, an act for which Mary was grateful as the smell of baked beans turned her stomach. Irrationally, she felt responsible for his bad mood as he swilled the stewed tea around in his cup and avoided her gaze. He did not thaw until after she returned from the bathroom, having vomited extensively for ten minutes, whereupon he rubbed her back and found a dry ginger biscuit in the jar by the bed. Even then he remained perceptibly tense, his eyes drifting away from hers, and she had been poised to say something, to promise she would push him no further, that she wouldn't mention his father again. Yet she didn't, and Mary found herself seized by the feeling that this was some kind of test, one he didn't believe her capable of withstanding.

"Could I look at that address again, milady?" the chauffeur's voice cut in to her musings.

Mary handed the envelope forward to McManus so he could re-examine the tiny uncertain print on the back.

"Are we close, do you think?"

"I had an aunt lived round here once, and when I saw the address I thought… well, this is it, milady." He gestured with a gloved hand at the window as they pulled up alongside a funeral parlour, set on the lowest level of a four story grey sandstone building.

Mary swallowed, her fingers pressing together in her lap. "Very good. Thank you."

After a brief moment's hesitation McManus opened the door and almost hit three small boys wheeling round the corner piled together precariously on the same rusty bicycle. He barked at them and swiped them away with his hand as they fell about, eyes wide as they stared at the car, and then at Mary as the chauffeur handed her down from the backseat.

"Bloody hell, it's the Queen!"

Despite herself, Mary baulked at the comparison to Mary of Teck, but then realized that this child most likely had absolutely no idea what the King's wife looked like.

"Get!" McManus hissed, his face ruddy as his eyes returned to the immaculate Rolls Royce that he'd spent the morning indulgently polishing. "Should I come in with you, milady?"

Despite the smell that drifted and burned in her nostrils Mary managed a small, amused smile. "I think the car is more in need of your protection."

"Yes, milady." The chauffeur doffed his cap, his hand moving to brush an imaginary fleck of soot from the hood, before reconsidering his professional role for a moment, and jumping in front of Mary to push the shop door open ahead of her.

She took a deep breath and instantly wished she hadn't. _What was that smell? _The bell above the door jingled and Mary stepped into the darkened shop, a film of dust clinging to the sleeve of her scarlet coat as she stepped over the threshold and brushed against the uneven doorframe. Two shabby chairs that looked like they could possibly have once been leather faced an uneven wooden desk to her left, and along the wall a shelf displayed what could only be described as the most depressing selection of floral arrangements Mary had ever seen. White Chrysanthemums, limp with the absence of life, spelt out the name 'Jack,' and Mary hoped that during their use on the actual occasion they had looked rather more vibrant. Here, in this damp dark parlour, they just looked grey, and the smell persisted, a smell that certainly couldn't be attributed to rotten flowers.

"Those are last week's, all from the same funeral."

Mary turned to face the owner of the voice and saw a man at least a foot shorter than her, whose whispery tones did not match his simian features. A pair of hazy green eyes widened in surprise as he looked at her, his pencil thin lips pressing together.

"Little bairn, Jack, lived upstairs. The castle and ship are for Hibs, he loved that team," he said, recovering and indicating the arrangement that presumably had once resembled a castle and a ship but now seemed to hold no shape at all, the wires the flowers had been wrapped around visible where dead buds had turned to mulch. "Football," he added.

"I see," Mary replied, stifling a cough and raising her glove momentarily to her mouth.

"We do a nice service for children," the man said, his eyes narrowing in a manner that Mary could only describe as mercenary. She flinched, and he continued to regard her with interest, no doubt valuing the cut of her clothes, his eyes catching upon her earrings before flicking back to her face with lizard-like precision. "No?" He smiled, jagged pieces of tooth emerging from a protruding muzzle. "I wonder why you're here then, madam."

Mary swallowed, the back of her neck tingling. "I'm looking for Mark Carlisle."

"Are you now?" He rolled thin shoulders back underneath his jacket, the patchy velvet trim of the high collar brushing his papery neck. "Curiouser and curiouser."

Mary's eyebrows arched in surprise, and the man released a laugh that made her jump, a high-pitched wheeze, that seemed as if it might turn into a scream emitted from the back of a dying throat. "Some of us can read north of the border, you know, _Your Ladyship_."

"Yes, of course." Mary's jaw tensed.

"Come with me."

He led her towards a narrow corridor that cut away from a corner of the room, and Mary fought a wave of repulsion as she followed him. His height made him seem almost childlike – and if it weren't for the large bald patch on the back of his head and the thick fleshy ears that protruded on either side – she would have expected a thin boy's face to turn back to her in the passage. A gas lamp on the wall provided the only light as her guide pressed himself against a wooden beam to allow her ahead of him.

"After you."

Mary shrank away from him and found the rail at the top of a narrow staircase, thinking again that she had made a terrible mistake in coming here.

At her feet, a gaping black hole fell away from the floorboards, an immeasurable descent below. She placed a foot tentatively on the top step, her hand tightening around the thin metal bannister. Unbidden, the story of nineteenth century serial killers, Burke and Hare, came to mind, accompanied by Cousin Patrick's voice as he summoned his best Scottish accent to tell the story.

They had lain on their stomachs under the bed, her, Edith and Patrick, dust itching in their nostrils and the dark covering them in quivering excitement. _I'm going to frighten you terribly, now. _Patrick had spared no details. No regard for feminine sensibilities. The gloom, barely relieved by the thin strip of late afternoon light beneath the valance, seemed to pulse around her as he told a tale that Mary had struggled to dismiss for many nights afterwards. She thought of the two men, now - in rooms like this - smothering their victims, and selling their bodies for dissection by unwitting medical students. _Doun the close and up the stair._

Given the choice between the close proximity of the undertaker at the top of the stairs, and going down into the unknown depths of the basement, Mary settled on the latter. She steeled herself and stepped gingerly down into the darkness. As she descended, a thin pool of flickering light spread out towards her, and with relief Mary realized there were no more than six or seven steps, although the ceiling was so low she had to duck before stepping down from the stone ledge into the basement proper. The undertaker brushed past her from behind, and she closed her eyes to contain a swell of nausea.

"Looks like Alice has fallen down the rabbit hole," he said, by way of introduction.

A man turned from the workbench, squinting as he faced them, his chest slightly exposed, beads of sweat just visible on his skin. Mary's eyes adjusted to the dim light, the coffins standing to attention around the cellar coming into focus, five or six along each wall. A saw hung loosely in the man's hand, and he gestured towards them with it.

"What's all this?" He frowned. "I got no time for do-gooders today. This has got to be done by tomorrow morning, or that little bairn is going to stink to high heaven before we've got her in the ground."

"I'm not connected to any kind of charity," Mary replied.

"Then what are you connected to?"

"Richard."

A nerve above Mark's cheekbone twitched, but otherwise his face remained unmoving. He seemed to crumple inwards, fold away, replacing the saw on the bench and turning his back to her, spreading his palms against the rough edge of the half-finished coffin. Through his thin shirt, Mary could see every notch of his spine.

She took an uncertain step forwards. "I'm Mary, Richard's wife."

He turned back to her. "You're very beautiful."

Mary felt her cheeks flush, despite the pressing damp of the surroundings, and she extended her hand.

Mark shook his head, holding his hands out to the sides, where they glistened with oil and grease. "I made a mistake with the coffin," he offered. "Too small. I was half way through priming the wood when I realized." He nodded at the foot of the coffin where he had hacked away the tapering end with the saw. "I haven't the time to start again."

"Why don't you take your lovely daughter-in-law home for a brew?"

"You sure, Wally?" Mark asked, wiping his hands down the sides of his trousers and doing his shirt up to the collar.

"Oh, yes, quite sure." Wally's eyes travelled over Mary once more, and a crawling sensation pervaded her skin, as if he were sizing her up by the value of her internal organs. _But an' ben wi' Burke and Hare._

* * *

Mary perched on the edge of the only chair in the room, every muscle in her body poised and tensed. A tight smile branded her lips as she watched Richard's father busy himself with the kettle, filling it with dubious looking water and swinging the arm of the tripod so the cast iron pot wobbled on its chain over the struggling flames. Despite the fire she felt cold, even beneath the wool of her expensive coat, whilst Mark barely seemed to notice the draft whistling from the cracked window and disturbing the torn sheet that acted as a curtain. _A single room._

Slums had not been something she had ever thought a great deal about, or even thought about at all, beyond the safe pages of a book from her father's library. What had she expected? If she had thought about it Mary supposed she would have vaguely imagined dirt, cold, damp. Words that didn't summon much physical response in her; apart from during the occasional hunt, when had she ever felt such sensations? She had never thought of the smell, or how the stench of the air infiltrated the pores, weighing heavily on the body and stifling any clean breaths that remained in the lungs.

Mark hovered by the kettle, his hands clasped behind his back, for a moment he looked like Richard, but smaller, withered, tired. Mary wondered how old he was. He had silvery hair, swept back from his head, thin on top and thicker at the back, where it curled slightly, like Richard's. Mark's face did not appear heavily lined but his skin had the sallow, translucent quality that Mary could only imagine came as a result of being malnourished.

He offered her a small smile, and the corners of his pale blue eyes crinkled. "I'm afraid I don't know what to say to you."

Mary's tense smile faltered at this sudden honesty;, she swallowed and felt tears prick her eyes. "I hope I was right to come."

"Does Richard know you're here?"

Mary's lips pursed. "No."

"Daft question. He wouldn't let you come here alone – or at all, most likely."

"He underestimates me."

"You have a strong stomach?" Mark asked, and Mary felt heat rise into her face.

"Oh, no, I didn't mean…"

"No. You're right. It takes a strong character to come here, especially coming from where you do – another world." He smiled, allowing her to gather herself as he took two tin mugs down from a precarious shelf. "Richard invited me to the wedding, but I have no place at such things. He knows that."

"I'm sure he doesn't feel that way."

A wail cracked the air and it sounded as if the screaming child was in the room with them, drumming feet could be heard on the stair outside, and what sounded like furniture being moved caused dust to fall from the ceiling, swirling lines shimmering down into Mary's lap.

"Family upstairs are moving out. Being rehoused by some charity or other. Only right. There's seven of them in a room like this. One of the bairns has twisted legs, can't walk, lots of them round here like that." He lifted the lid of the kettle. "Not boiled, yet." He crossed his arms against his sunken chest. "Richard was always ill, fevers, rashes, all sorts, he slept for three days solid, once. Never did like to be woken."

"No." Mary smiled, the expression playing on her lips for a moment as she thought of how he disliked being roused in the night.

"You learn to sleep through anything here. Always something happening, someone being born, someone dying." He paused. "A space in a room is always filled."

"Did Richard grow up here?" Mary asked.

"For the most part. I expect it doesn't look much to you, but its always felt all right to me. As long as you end up somewhere a bit better than where you started out… aye, that's what matters." He picked up a cloth and took hold of the bar to swing the kettle away from the flame, taking a jar from a trivet, and sprinkling tea leaves and a slosh of yellowy milk from a cloudy bottle into the mugs first.

Mary could not imagine anything worse than this, than being like the woman upstairs, who she could hear screaming at one of the children, feet pounding on the floorboards. Where did one wash clothes? Bathe? How did anyone keep a room like this clean? She took the mug from Mark, pressing her lips together as she eyed the swirling curds of milk, like punctuation marks, on the surface of the insipid liquid. She did not know what to say, or why she had come. To prove something to Richard, or to herself? It certainly hadn't been for Mark, and a whisper of guilt curled in her throat.

The door bursting open spared Mary summoning the social niceties her mother had taught her to utter when visiting needy tenants on the estate. A red faced woman with a wailing baby clutched to her apron panted out a request to Mark, in a thick Scottish accent that Mary could not understand. Her father-in-law replied in much the same manner, and Mary realized he had been moderating his own natural tongue whilst speaking to her.

"Angus needs help getting the bed down the stairs. I shan't be long."

"It's going to need the three of us," the woman said, more slowly, looking at Mary properly for the first time, her mouth dropping open.

"Can I help?" Mary asked, before wondering wildly what exactly such an offer could amount to.

The woman seemed too harried to analyze the appearance of this stranger in their midst. "Aye. Here." She thrust the baby towards Mary, so she had to hastily place her mug on the floor by her feet.

Mark opened his mouth to speak but they were interrupted by the sound of a man bellowing from the floor above, in what sounded like a mixture of Scots and profanity.

"Haud yer wheesht!" his wife screamed back at him, setting off back up the stairwell with a puff of annoyance.

"All right?" Mark asked.

Mary nodded stiffly, standing up with the baby in her arms; its little back arched in order to get a better look at her. She moved to the doorway and peered up at the stairs, where at the top she could see the edge of a large wooden bed teetering on the first step. She looked at the baby; wide eyed under a woolen bonnet, bottom lip jutting out, and face puce from crying. Not an unattractive creature, little cheeks rather sunken, the skin dry and sore, but deep brown eyes that sparkled defiantly despite the shadows beneath them. Mary tensed for the scream but it didn't come. She could dimly recall holding Sybil as a baby, an abundance of blankets and fussing hands, a head of smooth dark waves.

As babies they had all been fussed over endlessly, no doubt, and she wondered how much rapturous attention this baby had received, or whether it was just another survivor, another occupier of a small space. Mary's nose wrinkled, the child certainly smelt, and with sudden panic she thought that she had absolutely no idea how to change a napkin. Not that she would need to…but still, she didn't know how to do any of it. She wondered if perhaps Richard did; this didn't seem an environment where a boy could escape doing such tasks if asked.

A great deal of indiscernible conversation drifted down the stairs, Angus, Mark and the baby's mother positioned behind the bed as if they were just going to push it down the steps and hope for the best. Mary didn't think she could bear to watch, moving away from the door and walking to the window, becoming accustomed to the infant's soft weight in her arms. She twitched the sheet back with one finger, holding the baby tightly as it twisted in its upright position to look out of the window.

The glass was warped and cracked, blackened crescents of dirt at each corner, so she could barely see outside into the courtyard below. A girl's lilting voice drifted into her hearing, and Mary saw a figure pegging out washing in a small fenced in area. The baby sneezed and she patted its back tentatively, trying to dismiss the thought of the various diseases she had placed herself at risk of contracting.

A stream of mucus spurted from the baby's nose and it shook its head before lowering its face to nuzzle against Mary's coat, leaving a glistening trail behind.

"Oh dear," she said, unable to disguise a grimace, casting around for a cloth of some sort. At the end of the neatly made, if stained bed, a pile of blankets sat atop a small trunk. She reached down awkwardly, holding the snotty child against her shoulder and tugging the nearest piece of material, dislodging the other sheets in the process. "Here we are," she said, using the corner of threadbare waffle blanket to wipe the baby's nose, and her own coat.

With a brief smirk of amusement Mary wondered at the expression on her grandmother's face if she could see her here, in a tenement, holding a stranger's sniveling baby. Deciding that she couldn't pick up the blankets and hold the baby at the same time Mary placed the infant down on the bed, where it kicked its legs and kept a beady eye trained on her as she stopped to collect the sheets from the floor – dropping them almost instantly and raising her hand to her mouth with a gasp, before thinking twice about touching her lips with her glove. The blankets swam with fleas; they danced before her eyes, so that for a moment she felt quite faint. Mary crouched down on the floor and rested her head against her knees as the room span, her hand clasping the edge of the wooden trunk. She looked up and gripped the trunk a little tighter to push herself to her feet. As she did so she saw that the wood was embossed with initials across its lid: _R.M.C._

She lifted the lid. The box was divided in half and on one side a pile of newspaper cuttings lay leaf upon leaf, curled and yellowed around the edges, spots of damp visible on the top few. Mary picked up the top one, a photograph from a newspaper of Richard with Edward VII, dated June, 1907. As her fingers slipped between the cuttings she realized they descended in date order. What would she find at the bottom? Richard's first byline? Her eyes travelled to the opposite side, and it seemed the remnants of childhood occupied this section of the box, and there appeared very little to show for it. No photographs, no locks of hair, no cherished toys, christening gowns or silverware. All the things she knew occupied ornate memory cases in her mother's room, velvet interiors and carefully folded items between sheets of silk. She reached down and gingerly removed the tatty blanket lying on the top to reveal a layer of notebooks. Mary picked one up and opened it. She recognized a less sophisticated version of Richard's impatient scrawl immediately and smiled, despite herself, as she read an entertaining account of the capture of an escaped flock of chickens. She took out all of the notebooks and put them to one side. At the bottom a solitary toy remained, an obviously handmade wooden duck, scratches of yellow paint remaining on it's surface, four uneven wheels at each corner and a frayed piece of string attached to a hook at one end.

The baby squawked and Mary picked up the duck, standing up and feeling her heart lurch as she realized the infant had rolled to the edge of the bed. _She would be a terrible mother. _She picked the child up and it began to grizzle, thrusting a fist into a dribbling mouth and eyeing the toy in her hand with interest.

"Do you want to play with this?" The little brows knitted and a hand reached out to flail at the duck. "Here." Predictably, the baby forced the toy against its mouth and found its head to suck as if it were a teat.

A crash sounded from the stairwell and when Mary looked out of the door she saw a huge man at the bottom step of the landing, forcing his shoulder into the bed as above him his wife and Mark clung onto the headboard. With difficulty he heaved up the foot of the bed and with a great deal of swearing – which he didn't moderate when he saw Mary – Angus maneuvered the bed round the corner in order to make it down the final flight at the end of the narrow corridor. Mark gave Mary a brief smile as they passed the doorway, the bed on its side between them, the rough square bed knobs dragging on the wall so that Mary had to step back as they passed the door. Catching sight of its mother the baby screamed, its wail contributing to the overall noise that thumped against Mary's temple as the sound of the bed bouncing down the last flight of stairs resounded through the building. A whoop went up and when she looked up she saw four children sliding down the stairs the bed had just come down on top of a ragged mattress.

"Who are you?" a small girl demanded, holding out thin arms to the baby who lurched away from Mary into them, dropping the duck in the process. "And what you doing here?"

Mark dabbed at the sweat on his brow, knocking back the cold tea and wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "It's in one piece, at least."

"What about the children's beds?" Mary asked.

"There's just the one bed," he replied, replacing his cup on the shelf, his hand moving to rest inside his pocket.

"Oh," she said, pressing her gloves together for a moment.

Mark frowned, walking over to the bed and picking up the duck. Mary tensed with embarrassment, worried he would think she had been prying, the trunk still open at the foot of the bed.

"I made this," he said, turning it over in his hand and spinning one of the jerky wheels with his finger. "The wheels aren't so good. Richard called it Tipsy. It doesn't run straight."

"It's lovely," Mary said.

"Hm, I wouldn't go that far," Mark said, putting it down and wiping his hand on his trouser. "Little Frank had it in his mouth, did he?" She nodded. "Mm. Richard was a bit protective of it. Wouldn't let anyone else near it, screamed if another bairn tried to take it off him. He liked to play on his own. Not like me, I liked to run around the close with the bigger boys, always outside I was, liked the fresh air on my face." Mary baulked internally at the word, _fresh_. "I've never been one for being alone. I'll miss Angus and Siobhan."

"Are they moving far?"

"Marchmont. A new place, before all this is demolished. It's on the Bruntsfield estate, air will be better up there for the bairns."

"They're demolishing this building?" Mary frowned.

"Oh, yes, soon, no doubt." He turned his back to her and reached onto a shelf on the wall beside the fireplace. Mary watched as he moved the position of a book – _The Bible?_ - and adjusted a figurine of the Virgin Mary, these seemed to be the only personal possessions in the room.

"Mr Carlisle, I…" she paused, unsure how to proceed. "I wonder if you would come back with me. We're staying nearby and Richard should be returning from London tomorrow."

"No." She watched his shoulders hunch. "I can't do that."

"Richard has bought an estate, there are cottages…fresh air."

"No!"

Mary's hands clenched together. "I'm sorry. Perhaps I shouldn't have come."

"Perhaps you shouldn't," he muttered, his head bowed. "We always want something better for our children," he began, without turning to her, so she could just see the minute movements of his back beneath the shirt. "For me, this was better. I fancy that's hard for you to believe. Sixty years ago I was born under South Bridge, in the vaults. Your car probably drove that way, you wouldn't know it's a bridge; we build up and down here, not out." He straightened and moved slowly back to face her. "The vaults are long filled in, most of the arches hidden by buildings, _hidden_, but I know what's there."

"You could have something different," she said, finally. "Somewhere to…"

"Die?" he provided, and his eyebrows rose, his expression Richard's, the lines below his cheekbones punching inward.

"Live a little better." Mary swallowed. "And, you wouldn't need to be alone."

"Richard's mother died when he was fourteen, and he learned what it was to be alone. My mother died when I was fifteen and then I met Sarah and had Richard, and I wasn't alone. It's taken him long enough to find you. I don't want to spoil it."

* * *

Mary raised an eyebrow and managed a small smile as Granny continued her diatribe about the intricacies of advertising for a ladies maid, her mother nodding along in pained agreement. She looked down at the untouched plate of sandwiches in front of her and supposed she should eat something, before her mother succumbed to her obvious desire to mention her daughter's apparent lack of appetite. Granny had once said that Cora's vigilance over her daughters' eating habits was unbecoming and indelicate –_such observations are a job for a nanny, and not a mother. _

"Don't you agree, Mary?"

"Yes, Granny. I'm sure I do."

Violet tutted. "We are discussing the search for _your_ ladies maid. I'm sure you're quite happy with Anna, but can she style your hair in the latest Parisian fashions?"

"We can hardly spare Anna permanently. Not now," Cora said. "We've hardly a footman left."

"I won't poach any of your maids, Mama," Mary replied, _as much as I might like to._

"And have you hired a butler?" Violet asked. "Mary, really, you are going to have nobody to staff that house –when it's _finished_ - it really is the most awful time to be employing servants," Violet sighed." She sighed.

"The war is proving terribly inconvenient." Mary picked up her fork and moved the slice of cake on her plate, before lying it back down.

"Don't be facetious, my dear," Violet said. "When can we expect the return of your husband?"

"He's taking an evening train."

"Will he be back for dinner?" Cora asked.

"I shouldn't think so."

"And how was Scotland?" Violet asked. "Your grandfather enjoyed the grouse, but I'm afraid my abiding memory is of humourless people and a biting wind."

"There is rather more to it than that," Mary replied, stirring a lump of sugar into her tea, feeling her mother's gaze upon her.

"Can we expect to see you clad head to foot in tartan?" Her grandmother smirked with a wry smile to Cora, who inclined her head before redirecting her gaze to Mary's face.

Mary pressed her lips together. "Hardly."

She looked down into her teacup. The room felt stifling, every ostentatious item in the Dower House's sitting room grated, excesses that seemed to leap out at her from every beautiful, unnecessary thing. She thought of Mark-she had thought of little else since she returned the previous day-she thought of the bare floorboards, the patchwork of fleas and that one battered bed he had helped carry down the stairs. Mary raised the tea to her lips and almost spat it back out again, the liquid sickly sweet so that it left granules of sugar on her lips.

"Darling, I think you've added at least four lumps of sugar," Cora said. "You seem rather distracted." She attempted to give Mary a conspiratorial look, raising her eyebrows and turning her head slightly away from her mother-in-law.

"Well, if anyone is distracted, it is Richard," Violet said.

"Yes," Mary snapped. "By the sinking of the _Lusitania_."

"He isn't raising the wreck himself, is he?" her grandmother retorted. "I suppose we should be thankful he isn't knee deep in mud in a trench."

"I shall tell Richard how concerned you are for his safety. He will be visibly moved, I'm sure."

Cora clicked her tongue in mild admonishment, but the effort of the retort had sapped what strength Mary had marshaled to cope with the teatime ritual, and she missed her grandmother's disgruntled expression. She did not feel well, in fact, whether Richard did actually make it to dinner or not, she was quite sure she would not be attending. Mary had never before considered how many meals one was expected to eat during any given day, and that was without allowing for special occasions – hunt luncheons and so on. iI was quite obscene. She thought of little Frank and his gamboling collection of siblings, and she wondered what they had eaten today, in their new home on the edge of an ancestral estate. Perhaps they had two rooms, now, maybe even running water. She hoped so.

"I can hardly wait to see Sybil," Cora said. "She's travelling up with Rosamund. "It's been the most terrible wrench. Thinking of her in London, surrounded by _bombs_…"

"Thankfully, the bombs have yet to fall on London," Violet said.

"I do wonder if Richard might be able to print some pictures in his newspapers of Sybil tending the sick," Cora continued, ignoring her mother-in-law's comment. "Like Princess Louise."

"Mama, Sybil is not in France."

"It's still _dangerous_." Cora's eyebrows knitted as the butler cleared their plates.

Mary rolled her eyes and let her gaze travel out of the window, wishing that Richard would come home sooner, whilst simultaneously hoping to stay the moment when she would have to confess to him that she had invaded the past he had tried so hard to keep hidden.

* * *

Mary felt the heavy tug of sleep pressing her limbs into the familiar mattress as her thoughts disintegrated into the warm room; when a brief knock at the door startled her awake. She gasped and opened her eyes to see her mother slipping into the bedroom, the beading at the front of her gown glittering in the flames from the fire.

"Were you asleep?"

"Yes." Mary passed her hand over her eyes and covered her mouth to yawn.

"We missed you at dinner." Cora perched on the edge of the bed, and Mary sighed, pushing herself up against the pillows.

"I'm sure you were adequately entertained by Sybil's tales from Guy's."

"I'm not sure entertained is the word. Your father was certainly alarmed."

"Mm, at least Sybil will be close by from now on."

"She is such an innocent," Cora said, her eyes studying her eldest daughter's face. "I suppose you all were once."

Mary's eyebrows arched. "Once upon a time. Although I'm not sure you need worry about Edith just yet."

"I worry about all of you, your happiness, your futures. Letting you go is rather difficult."

"I can imagine."

"You can't, but you'll know one day." Cora reached to take Mary's hand.

"At least you haven't had to send a son to war," Mary said, and she thought of Matthew, and that summer day seemed another lifetime ago.

"One of the many blessings of having daughters." Cora smiled, pausing and giving Mary's hand a squeeze. "And another is knowing when they are concealing something."

"Am I such an open book?"

"I certainly would never say that of you."

Mary often felt her mother viewed her with a mixture of fascination and frustration, and it lit her features now, the imploring widening of her eyes so that Mary rolled her own and looked away, feeling a child once more.

"Will you tell me what it is?" Cora pressed.

"Mama, I am getting the distinct impression that there is something in particular that you're driving at, so why don't you come out and say it."

Cora squinted before responding, as if trying to read the answer in her daughter's eyes. "Are you pregnant?"

"Yes."

"Oh, Mary!" Cora trilled, squeezing her hand with both of hers, so hard that Mary winced.

"I'm afraid you won't think the timing terribly proper…"

"Oh." Cora's face clouded momentarily. "Yes, well, these things happen."

"Will Papa be so understanding?"

"I think perhaps it might be wise to delay telling him a little longer."

"Lie?" Mary asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Cushion the truth," Cora said, patting her hand. "But he'll be thrilled when he gets used to the idea."

"Has he even got used to the idea of Richard, yet?"

"Maybe this will help," Cora said, and Mary gave a dry laugh, which her mother conceded with a smile of her own.

Mary's head ached as Cora continued unhindered for several minutes on the importance of rest, eating regularly and the avoidance of crowds, horses and anything, it seemed, that involved even minimal exertion. Mary thought that if the tiredness and nausea persisted she would no longer feel like doing those things, anyway. She knew her mother would neither lecture, or admonish her, not on this occasion, although she could see the vague implication that Cora had sensed the whiff of impropriety and dismissed it for the greater good. Mary smiled occasionally but not encouragingly, and after her initial moment of perceptiveness Cora now seemed bound on her course and wholly unconcerned by any deeper feelings her daughter may have on the subject, any insecurities concealed beneath the initial revelation. Mary herself had not confronted these feelings, but she could sense them in the pit of her stomach, a gnawing anxiety.

The door burst open and Richard stormed into the room, almost throwing his briefcase to the floor before catching sight of Cora who had stood up hastily from the bed, a rather wide smile on her face.

"Good evening," he said, curtly. "Am I interrupting?"

"Not at all," Cora said, bending to kiss Mary's cheek. "Goodnight."

"Dare I ask why your mother is smiling like that?" Richard rasped, as the door shut, tugging at his necktie before shrugging off his jacket.

"Hello to you, too."

"I'm sorry," he replied, coming around the side of the bed and kissing her briefly, his lips barely brushing hers. "The train, it was cancelled – twice – and I have spent the last two days snatching brief periods of sleep at my desk. Do you know, it never used to bother me before, but after a sinking ship took over a thousand people to their deaths, I was still thinking about my wife." He exhaled, sitting down on the chair at the dressing table to remove his shoes. "I'm sorry for abandoning you."

"I know," Mary replied, as he came back and lent over, kissing her once more, deeply this time. "And you hardly abandoned me. That would imply you weren't going to come back."

"I will always come back."

He sat on the edge of the bed, his hands either side of her, and Mary thought he looked tired, the bright blue of his eyes dulled. She reached up and smoothed his roughened cheek. "I should hope so."

"And how are _you_?" he asked.

"Ill equipped for dining with my family, but otherwise fine."

"I imagine they weren't impressed with the interruption to our honeymoon."

Mary shrugged. "There will be other opportunities for us to travel, perhaps somewhere warmer, after the war."

"Certainly. After the war." He kissed her cheek. The words hung in the air, and Mary realized that _after_ was such an indeterminate expression, and she felt thankful again that Richard was far from the frontline. "How did you occupy yourself for the rest of your stay in bonny Scotland?" he asked.

"Oh, reading, mostly. It rained," Mary said, blinking quickly and looking past him.

"You didn't go exploring on your own?"

"No."

"When I called, Mrs Ludlock said the chauffeur had driven you to Edinburgh – sightseeing, I presumed. He frowned, sitting back and beginning to unbutton his shirt. "I may be biased, but it is usually more memorable. Did you see Edinburgh Castle?"

"No. Well, yes, from the car," Mary said, sitting quite still, her fingers pressing the sheet between her fingers in front of her.

He turned away from her for a moment, stepping out of his trousers and tugging off his socks. "I didn't think a drive would appeal to you, or is McManus a better motorist than me?"

"I have never said you are a bad driver," Mary said, grateful for the swerve in subject matter, the tightening in her throat loosening.

Richard turned around. "But _you_ are a bad liar," he said, and his lips set, his eyes suddenly alert as he regarded her shrewdly. "Where were you really, Mary?"

She had no choice, and the lump in her throat returned as she looked back at him, hardly able to meet his gaze. Richard continued to watch her, not looking away as he undid his cufflinks, a tension in his face that made Mary feel he would wince violently when she told him the truth.

"I went to see your father."

He did not wince; conversely his entire face seemed to harden into sharp lines, the shadows in the hollows beneath his cheekbones deepening. "You did _what_?"

Mary flinched, her eyebrows knitting. "I'm sorry, Richard, I…"

"Thought I wouldn't find out?"

"No, I… I wanted to understand, and you wouldn't talk to me."

"Oh, I see. You were _compelled_ to go behind my back, to seek to deceive me." A flash of colour marred his cheekbone. "Is that the manner in which we are to operate, Mary? Not to wait, not to respect, to act without care, thought, or consideration for anyone else?"

"No…" Mary shook her head, pushing off the sheet and standing up, whether to put them on a more even footing or to emphasize her remorse she did not know. She _was_ sorry.

"I have asked for no details of your past, for nothing that you haven't readily confessed, and yet you won't allow me the same courtesy."

"I thought that was your forte, extracting information without seeming to," Mary said, her voice strained with the effort of compressing, almost justifying, what she had done.

"Oh, no." Richard smiled, humourlessly. "Don't turn this to me, this is about you, and your lack of respect!"

"You can't think I did it with any kind of malice!"

"No, just a complete absence of thought. You went to the funeral parlour, did you? That was the address on the _private_ letter I received from him, which you appropriated with no thought of deception, I'm sure. You conveniently brought it with us to Scotland, incase I should decide I did want to embark on some sort of family reunion?"

"I wanted to help…"

"No!" He raised his voice and Mary winced as he took a step towards her, stopping short, his jaw tense. "No, you did not want to help, you wanted to know, and you intended to find out whether I told you or not."

Mary covered her eyes with her hand briefly. "I'm sorry."

"Yes, well, I expect you think that's enough."

"What more can I say?" she asked, her hands flying open at her sides, her lips twisting with the threat of tears.

"We are nothing if we cannot trust each other, Mary."

"You can trust me."

"Can I?" His eyes flashed, and he looked away, tossing the cufflinks onto the bed, to be enveloped in the folds of the quilt. "That's easy to say after the fact." He shook his head. "I would also like to ask if your particular view of the world takes into consideration the dangers of going somewhere like that_._" He raised his eyebrows. "Well?"

Mary swallowed, the damp of the cellar and the thoughts of infamous serial killers surrounding her once more. Fanciful, of course. Richard was more likely concerned with thieves and kidnappers, and not body snatchers. "I think I was most concerned with the possibility of catching something."

Richard paled. "So you should be. I hope you had the sense not to drink anything. You realize that water comes from a standpipe. Water that has washed past abattoirs and sewers, before arriving to spread typhoid through the tenements?"

"Your father said you were frequently ill as a child."

Richard barked a harsh laugh. "That's hardly surprising is it? Typhoid, dysentery, pneumonia, I've had them all! So you can probably see why I'm not delighted to hear that you decided to expose yourself to such things. And, it isn't just _you_ is it?" he said, glancing down at her stomach. "You must learn not to be so selfish, and quickly."

Mary paled as his comment hit its mark. She hadn't truly thought about how Richard would react to her going behind his back. The vague consideration had been there, just without being strong enough to prevent her. She ignored the voice that told her to stop, to exercise the restraint she managed to employ in other areas of her life. She hadn't thought of the baby she carried, either, not until she found herself faced with the spluttering of little Frank, and the wasted legs of his older brother, like a broken doll, hoisted onto a girl's hip. She thought herself impervious, she had the sense she could brave such surroundings, however unpleasant and ultimately be rewarded for her fortitude. But, Richard was not impressed, as, truly, she had known he wouldn't be and yet Mary could not shake the feeling that she would do it again, that she had faced some test of her character and triumphed. Richard seemed to sense this underlying defiance and his eyes narrowed once more.

"I'm not sure you think you were wrong, Mary. Do you?"

She hesitated. "I'm glad I went, but I'm sorry you feel deceived."

He shook his head. "I feel deceived because you _have_ deceived me!"

"How can I make it right?"

He scrubbed his hand through his hair.

"I don't know."

"I thought you said we shouldn't suffer interminably for our mistakes," Mary said quietly, as he turned away.

"And I wonder if you're the one who has a lot to learn."


	9. Chapter 9

**9.**

**The Hour Chimes**

October, 1939

Stephen took a deep breath, tipping his head back and looking up into the branches of the cedar above the bench. He couldn't breathe in the house; in every room he felt the weight of the confrontation with his parents, anxious that one of them should appear at any moment and begin the entire discussion again. His mother had wept, as he knew she would, and his father had thought the decision contained more than a little of Alexander's influence, and it had made Stephen furious. He rarely raged, and seldom disagreed with his parents.

He had watched in awe, and some horror, over the years as Alexander and Beatrice had fought with their parents over issues small and large. His relationship with his parents was entirely different, and Stephen supposed that, in part, it was because he didn't have to compete with anyone else; he had their undivided attention - and surveillance. This time they would not change his mind, and he wasn't sure his father entirely wanted to. He had seen the flicker of pride on his face but it had been tempered by the distress of his mother, the anguished way her face crumpled.

It was done, and he would not change his mind. He wouldn't return to Oxford, and Alexander wouldn't go back to his office, feet up on the desk, smoking the Melachrino cigarettes that had been his father's preferred brand. He wondered how Alexander's mother had taken the news and found that he could not imagine it.

He tilted his chin back down and saw Beatrice walking up the path. The sight of her pushed at the centre of his chest, the breeze disturbing the hem of her dress so it fanned out to reveal a flash of knee. He thought of her knee, the sharp corner of it that dug in the soft point above his hip as he hoisted her up into his arms against the wall. She didn't see him at once, and he took the opportunity to observe her in a moment of unguarded grace as she tucked her hair away from her face, her gaze sweeping up to the house. _Why is she here?_ Stephen didn't think he imagined the tension in her hands, the way her fingers pressed together at her sides, and when she turned and saw him her expression seemed to close, and she looked just like her mother.

"Hello," Stephen said, standing up to greet her.

"Are you hiding?"

"Even I could come up with a better hiding place than this."

"You were terrible at Hide and Seek," she said, sitting down beside him on the bench, crossing her legs and leaning back so the sun hit her pale cheek as it emerged from behind a cloud. "Or maybe you always wanted to be found."

Stephen felt his breath stop somewhere halfway up his throat, and he thought of her falling into the cupboard on top of him, sharp elbows and lips that kissed his ear. He knew he had flushed, but when Beatrice looked at him she did not smirk, even as the heat in his cheeks refused to die.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

This time Beatrice did smirk, that familiar quirk in the bow of her upper lip. "I don't _feel,_ Stephen, you know that. Only when I'm jazzed."

"And your mama?"

"Mama will brave anything, except losing Alex."

"Or any of you."

Beatrice shrugged, looking away. "And what of your parents, are they quite furious?"

"Not furious, no. They will come round. Papa understands."

"He knows you," she said. "He knows you only want to do the right thing."

"I can be wrong. I _have _been wrong." He squinted, looking ahead of him, feeling her eyes flick to the side of his face.

_What we did was wrong, but I would do it again. _

"Will you miss us all?"

"Oh, yes," he mumbled, looking down at his hands where they spread on his knees, braced there. "Will you write?"

"I don't expect so."

"You _did_ write to me," Stephen replied, and he could feel her tense beside him, even though they were not touching; she seemed to stiffen and straighten until she felt too far away to reach.

"I wouldn't call four lines a letter, Stephen, would you?"

"What did it mean?"

"I thought you liked Yeats," Beatrice said, vaguely, and he felt as he often did with her, that he was alone and she had left, her fingers still at his wrist, pushing until he couldn't feel his pulse.

"_The Lover Mourns For The Loss Of Love,_" he said, and the words choked him, a strangled whisper as his face burned.

"_Pale brows, still hands, and dim hair, I had a beautiful friend, And I dreamed that the old despair, Would end in love in the end."_ Her voice did not waver, as if she was reciting poetry under the watchful eye of a governess, dispassionate and cold. Stephen heard Beatrice's aunt, the way her voice lowered and her blue eyes shone as she intoned each word so it sent a shiver down his spine as he glanced to Beatrice. He was fourteen, and Beatrice was impossible at seventeen, a face too beautiful, and a body he saw every time he closed his eyes at night. They listened as Sybil read them Yeats, her unruly dark hair coming adrift as the sun shone from behind her on the steps of the folly.

"_Things fall apart_."

"_The centre cannot hold_," Beatrice completed. "Who will write poetry after this war? What will be left? I sometimes wonder what the point is, in any of it. We're born and then we die. How do we make something last in between, and live with what is lost?"

"It must be very difficult," he said, moistening his lips and sneaking a look at her, the crease between her eyebrows. "Without your father?"

Beatrice closed her eyes tightly. "Everything is difficult without him."

Stephen reached and took her hand where it was clenched in her lap. For a moment she made to pull away, and then, suddenly, like a rush of air, she fell against his chest, twisted against him. He pressed his palms to her back and he closed his eyes, her perfume and the smell of her hair close to his nose. For a moment she opened out against him, something soft and feathered beneath his hands.

* * *

The sweat ran in a rivulet down Alexander's back and he drew back his fist to smack against the punch bag, the muscles tense from his forearm to the defined triangle of his shoulder blade. He returned his gloves to his face so that they touched his cheekbones as he circled the swinging bag, aiming a jab and an upper cut at his imaginary opponent. He missed Oliver, whose speed and size made him a sometimes challenging and wily match. He glanced at the boxing ring in the centre of the room, the incongruous way it rose on its platform in what had once been an upstairs sitting room, the walls now papered in green damask. Alexander threw a final punch and the bag creaked on the chains that anchored it to the ceiling. He tugged off the boxing gloves and tossed them to the floor, and grabbed the towel that hung over the lower rope of the ring.

"Can you teach me?"

Alexander jumped, turning to see Christopher standing just inside the door. He rubbed the towel over his face and muscular chest, and shrugged. "I suppose so. Find your gloves, then." He gestured at the sideboard. "Head and mouth guard, too."

As Christopher undressed to his undershorts Alexander picked up the jug from the floor and poured himself a glass of water, gulping it so that it spilt down his chin and he wiped it away like blood. He had hated wearing a mouth guard at Christopher's age, the way it dug into his gums, but his father had always insisted he did, along with the uncomfortable and cumbersome head guard, the sweat of leather on his hairline. He climbed up into the ring, picking up his gloves as he did so, and waited as Christopher followed. Alexander jumped on the balls of his feet and beckoned Christopher closer with his glove curled inward.

"Keep moving, come on."

_I don't want to hurt you. _Alexander could hear the higher pitched voice of his youth followed by his father's chuckle. Y_ou won't hurt me, but you need to punch as if you want to. _Papa would tap him on the shoulder or the arm, move easily away from clumsy jabs, pushing him a little in the chest, drawing him forwards to fight back. He had been younger than Christopher, before he went away to school, a preparation of sorts he suspected at the time, and it had indeed come in handy, a lesson in survival. Of course, later, they had been evenly matched, and the advantage of Alexander's youth had meant that the fierier edge of his technique did not hinder him, as it perhaps should have. He did not have his father's control; in fact he had yet to learn it, how to hold back, how to douse the fire with something cold and calculating, one thought ahead of the opponent, one punch rehearsed in advance.

"Hit me, Christopher."

Christopher fired a vague punch to his older brother's arm, struggling to close his mouth over the gum shield.

"Come on!" Alexander reached easily and gave the boy a gentle push in the chest. "Hit me!"

Christopher darted forward and swung harder, catching Alexander on the hip. "Better! Come on, be angry!"

The boy pulled back his fist and caught his brother off guard, punching him hard in the stomach, so that he spluttered for a moment and doubled over.

"I'm sorry!" Christopher said barely comprehensibly, spitting the gum shield out onto the canvas. "I'm sorry!"

Alexander braced his hands on his knees and took a breath. "It's all right," he managed, rubbing his torso. "I let my guard down. I should have known better, even around you." He reached and gave Christopher a little knock on the shoulder with his glove. "And, maybe I deserved it."

Christopher looked down, pulling off his gloves and turning away to slip under the ropes. He sat on the edge of the ring so the rope pressed against his back. Taking another shaky breath Alexander ducked down to join him. Christopher's blond hair hung into his face and he looked down at his hands in his lap, his shoulders hunched. His brother removed his own gloves and extended his arm, pulling Christopher gently against him. "You shouldn't let me push you around," Alexander said. "You should stand up to me a bit more."

"With my fists?" Christopher sniffed.

"If I won't listen, then, yes."

"I just want you to be here, with us." He shrugged. "I know I'm annoying."

Alexander winced. "That is your prerogative as littlest brother."

"I won't be able to look after everyone if something happens to you."

"You know how to load a printing press, don't you?" Alexander nudged him, eliciting a small smile.

"Yes."

"Well, then. That's all you need to know."

"No it isn't. I don't know about anything, really, do I?" Christopher bit his lip. "I haven't even been away to school, yet."

"You will next year, it'll be here before you know it."

"I don't want to go, though. Don't you see?"

"Do you think that makes you different? Do you think anyone wants to go?" Alexander shook his head, passing a hand through his hair. "Christopher, let me tell you now, when it comes to it, none of those boys will want to leave their mamas."

* * *

Mary watched across the table as Alexander inclined his head to listen to his grandmother. He caught her looking and smiled slightly, his charming best. A conspiratorial smile and everything was all right; _but he is not Richard_, and he needed her in a different way. Mary discarded her pudding spoon beside the bowl, pressing a tight smile to her lips as she turned to Matthew at her side. How often had she sat in this position, not saying what she wanted to? And not hearing, not really listening to what was going on around her.

"I've never been keen on Eton Mess, either," Matthew said.

"It turned my stomach when I was pregnant with Florence, and I've never been able to eat it since."

"It sounds trite, but it really doesn't seem so very long ago that they were all turning the nursery upside down."

"Mm, being both seen and heard, much to my grandmother's horror."

Matthew chuckled. "Rambunctious."

"They were certainly that," Mary replied, raising an eyebrow. "I'm afraid my children always seemed to take over."

"Stephen has always enjoyed their company."

"And they his."

"I think he has always been rather envious," Matthew said, lifting the wine glass to his lips and glancing away from her across the table, to where Lavinia also appeared to have lost her appetite for pudding. "When I was a boy I don't think I ever wished for siblings, not that I recall, but I know that Stephen would have been lonely without your children to run around with."

"I'm sure in return he prevented some of the more outlandish stunts they might have dreamt up."

"I don't think Stephen could say no to Alex," Matthew replied, and there was a hardness around his eyes as he looked back to her. "Do you?"

The muscles in Mary's neck tensed, and she swallowed before replying. "I think that Stephen has a mind of his own, and that any influence Alex may have once had, has ceased to matter. They are adults, they are not children in the nursery."

"Lavinia is very upset."

"Is she?" Mary snapped. "We are all _upset. _She isn't the only one saying goodbye to her son tomorrow."

"Stephen is everything to her." Matthew lowered his eyes uncomfortably, moistening his lips and checking that the conversations around the rest of the table were continuing unabated.

A flush burned on Mary's cheekbone. "I see, so I can afford to lose a child? After all, I have two _spare_ sons should anything happen to Alex."

"Mary, I didn't…" Matthew blustered.

"No, I can see that I've been quite greedy. I'm sure I'll hardly notice dropping from five to four." Her voice trembled, but only a little, and she regarded him without blinking.

"I think you know that isn't what I meant."

It might not be what Matthew thought, but Mary had long considered that Lavinia felt that way and felt guilty. She thought of the other woman's face, pale and hollow as five-year-old Florence piped up in the middle of an interminable Sunday lunch at Downton – _Mama is going to have a baby! _The timing could hardly have been worse, and the weight of Lavinia's recent miscarriage hung over the table. Oliver had broken the silence by shrieking, loudly and randomly, before missing his mouth and pouring orange juice down the front of his shirt. Oliver was not here to interrupt, and there was no Richard to reassure her that they deserved everything they had. Now, she could not help feeling that her luck had run out.

"It doesn't matter." She shook her head, dismissing any possibility of apology. "Perhaps you could make a toast to our boys. This is their farewell dinner after all."

"Indeed." Matthew cleared his throat and raised his glass, looking to Mary once more but she refused to return his glance. "A toast, to Alexander and Stephen. We prayed this day would not come, but it has, so we must love you, and let you go." He raised his glass and a murmur of agreement went around the table. "Alexander and Stephen."

"Alexander and Stephen," Mary said, and as Alexander caught her eye her chest contracted.

"Our heroes!" Beatrice added, swilling the dregs of red wine in her glass, and pointedly refusing to take a sip as the rest of the table did. She ignored Florence's hand on hers. "_Lo, for us the void."_

"If you're fishing in the pool of quotations, Beatrice, perhaps you should look to a different quotation." Alexander said, as Cora's eyes widened, her hand moving to his arm. "_A time to keep silence, and a time to speak?"_

"It is not for you to moderate my speech, _Your Lordship_."

Alexander smirked, a line of shadow under his cheekbone, his eyes hooded, as the rest of the table descended into uncomfortable silence, glasses slowly lowered back into place. "No it isn't. I would have thought by now you would have learnt the art of making a measured response, or, indeed, saying nothing at all."

"Oh, like Mama, you mean?"

Mouths dropped open around the table and Alexander's eyes flashed. "Think very carefully before you continue."

"The staunch defender!" Beatrice laughed. "Oh Alex, even Papa didn't think Mama the soul of virtue. I could tell you things about our mother that would make your hair curl!" Her voice rose, shrill and cutting, as the colour drained from Mary's face.

Alexander banged his fist on the table, and Lavinia jumped visibly in her seat, her hand white around her glass. "Enough!" he shouted.

The colour rose in Beatrice's cheeks and she jerked her hand away from Florence. "Oh, I agree, it is more than _enough._" She looked to Mary, unblinking. "I do _apologise_, Mama, but you know all about the shame a daughter can bring on her mother, and how it plagues the conscience and disorders the mind."

"I am not ashamed of you." Mary replied, quietly, blinking back tears.

"Really? Like Grandmamma wasn't ashamed of you when a man died in your bed?" Her voice crackled through the room, momentarily contorting the faces of everyone present, even the footmen stationed in the corners; their faces trembling against schooled composure as Christopher openly goggled at his mother and sister.

Mary shut her eyes, and Cora appeared to shiver in her seat, her lips trembling as she looked at her granddaughter. "Beatrice," she hissed. "Stop it at once!" Cora looked at Mary and saw her neck tense, before her face fell completely blank, and her eyes glazed into what a casual observer would regard as composure, but that Cora knew was not. "Christopher, darling, go and find a book to read in the library." Cora said.

Christopher's brow furrowed and he opened his mouth to object.

"Go, now," Alex said, his eyes never leaving Beatrice's as Christopher got up and pushed his chair under the table, his gaze lingering on his mother's bowed head.

Beatrice waited until their youngest brother had left the room. "I suppose this is only a shock to us children," she said with a laugh. "It seems it's rather an open secret!"

"Stop it, Beatrice!" Florence said, her voice shaking.

"Oh, it's hard, I know, Flossie. Realising that both your mother _and _your sister are sluts!"

The table shook as Alexander lurched to his feet, striding over and grabbing Beatrice under her arm. "Not another word," he spat through gritted teeth.

"Get off me!"

"Get up!" He yanked her out of the seat.

"Alex…" Matthew started; half rising from his chair but Alexander had already pulled his sister to her feet, his large hand encircling her upper arm. Mary the only one not watching them.

"You disgust me!" he said. "How dare you?"

Beatrice jerked her chin so she could meet his eyes, her neck long and white, vulnerable, as she trembled slightly in his grip. Stephen watched from beside his mother, he did not consider intervening as he saw Beatrice's lips twist once more into a rictus smile. "You don't think I'm lying, do you? Oh, Alex! Mama fucked a man to death!"

The air seemed to whistle into a hole somewhere in the centre of the table before gathering in force behind the slap Alexander dealt to Beatrice's cheek. She did not gasp. She hardly flinched, wilting in her brother's hold, not pulling away, not resisting, until he released her, pushing her away from him. Mary heard the sound of the blow, the flick and strike, but she felt nothing as Beatrice's words sought to enter her chest, poke their way beneath her collarbones, sicken her stomach. It did not work, it meant nothing, it was the wild drama of a four-year-old tantrum. All Mary could think in that moment was of Beatrice, less than a year ago, crumpled in the centre of Florence's bed, curled so her white forehead almost touched her bare knees. Mary recalled being unable to remember how they had got her home from the hospital, how between them they had supported her on unsteady legs, a thin hand gripping Mary's own but with a hold that seemed to imply there was no strength in the grasp, at all.

_How could I not have known? _

Mary looked up. She heard the door of the dining room slam after Beatrice, she heard the movement of Alexander behind her chair and although she didn't turn, she could see him straightening, adjusting his cuffs, his hand moving to turn the signet ring – the sadness and shame in his eyes. She did not look at Matthew – gripping the back of his chair - but to Florence, the tears familiar and bright on her cheeks. Mary saw Florence's face, white cheekbones, the polished brightness of a hospital corridor, and the momentary, piercing thought reflected back to her, that, once more, a child had been snatched away. And in a way, they had. Beatrice was the one she'd come closest to losing, in every sense that mattered. Oliver the sickly baby had still nuzzled against her breast, and Christopher, seemingly fading, the words of severe doctors ringing in her ears, had continued to hold her hand. They had been returned, determinedly and gently. There was nothing gentle about what happened to Beatrice, and the girl did not understand, did not realize, that the look on her mother's face was relief when she saw her in that hospital room.

_I'm sorry, I'm sorry._

An apology from Beatrice had to be drawn, pulled as a thread from a gown, carefully and delicately so as not to ladder the exquisite fabric. She had repeated the words over and over again, and Mary did not know if they were addressed to her, who they were for. She called the doctor, twice, that night, and she and Florence sat awake either side of Beatrice on the bed, not speaking, hardly moving, as the rain prickled lightly against the window pane. _So many long nights._ In the hours before dawn Beatrice had woken, and a nauseous pressure had pulsed against Mary's chest through the blouse she still wore from the day before. _I'm sorry. _The words drawn from a place in her daughter she did not recognize. Beatrice cried, heaving dry sobs, until the tears streamed silently down Mary's own cheeks.

And then, she had done the one thing her daughter had asked her not to do. She had told Richard.

The table emptied, her mother's hand whispering past on her shoulder, but Mary knew that only Alexander would remain behind, waiting for her to stand. She stood, and let herself fall against his starched shirt, his arms around her back, his cheek against her hair, and she wondered when this had happened, when he had become this man, her little boy. He would not ask her to explain. She knew that, then. She would tell him, about Kemal Pamuk, she would tell him… she could not tell him everything. _He is not Richard_, and for a moment she seemed to suffocate against his chest under the weight of a past half lived, half shared.

* * *

Alexander slung the leather valise onto the backseat, the morning pink and red on the horizon, changing and mixing before his eyes, casting an eerie hue across the cream stonework. A bloody sunrise. He would go now, before they woke, the previous evening still indented in the lines of the sheets on their cheeks. Alexander took a deep breath and leaned back against the bonnet of the car for a moment, his arms folded, his gaze to the ground. _Hurry home._ He wondered at the goodbye he would have received from Papa, once he had accepted that Alexander intended to go, once he had realized that no amount of threatening, or 'string-pulling' would prevent it. No doubt he would have cautioned against playing the hero, of making the mistake of thinking any war would favour the righteous and good. He would have said that war does not care for you, or I, or anyone, and it will cost the world nothing to remove you from it, but it will cost me everything. The words were so clear, almost as if they had been spoken.

Alexander found when he thought of the previous night he saw nothing but Beatrice's face after he had slapped her, the words she had spoken cracking at their feet. Oh, he knew Mama was not the soul of virtue. She did not explain, and he did not wish her to, not about that, an old story, a forgotten scandal. It meant nothing. His eyes had found Matthew's as he left the room, and it was him that Alexander found he wanted to take by the collar and shake. _I see you. _

He had watched these last months, and everything he had known seemed to shift, the scenery disturbed, the characters displaced but the setting the same. They dined at Downton, they had dinners in London at St James Place, and Matthew was there, kind, gently austere in a dead man's home, his wife at his side, impeccable in their tolerance of grief. But then, he _dared _to challenge Alexander's own behaviour, and that was incomprehensible until Alexander remembered that Matthew did not know, did not realize that he had been seen. It was laughable, then.

"You planned to slip away at dawn?"

Alexander turned to see his mother on the raised step outside the front door, her dressing gown pulled around her. He shrugged.

"I'm hardly going to the front line. I imagine we'll be marching up and down the sea front and attending lectures on deportment. No doubt they will say my hair is too long."

"Then they should know that as a small boy you resembled Little Lord Fauntleroy."

"I think Nanny Simmonds had a great deal to do with my dislike of haircuts."

"I wonder if she ever held a pair of scissors again," Mary said, an eyebrow raised.

"Well, not to cut a toffee out of a charge's hair that's for sure, if the references Papa gave her were anything to go by."

"Poor Beatrice," Mary said, blinking quickly and setting a tight-lipped smile on her face.

"Indeed," Alexander replied, thinking of the blood on Beatrice's fingers as she'd covered her nicked ear. "Well, I should go and collect Stephen."

"I should like a photograph of you in uniform, as soon as possible, for bragging purposes."

He grinned. "I shall set my cap at an especially jaunty angle, should I make it into uniform. Who's to say I'll even pass the exams?"

Mary stepped down, reaching to rest the palm of her hand against his cheek. "You will."

"I'll hurry home."

"Oh, Alex." Mary swallowed, closing her eyes for a moment, her fingertips still pressing his cheekbone.

"And, I will need to get away to London next week, to meet with Masters about the terms of his editorial control in my absence. You'll come?"

"Yes, of course," Mary replied, letting her hand fall to adjust his collar. He could not bear a painful goodbye; she knew that. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. "Good luck, my darling boy."

"Thank you, Mama."

Alexander climbed into the drivers seat, looking back at her once and raising his hand in farewell.


End file.
